That childhood summer my sister and I after discussing them eagerly
Drew on white paper and colored with crayolas
Estates we desired to possess as adults;

My sister’s days, fifty years lived through,
I do not presume to report on,
But for where I live

Less pages of paper are needed and fewer crayons
Or grayer, scrappier sheets and impure, dark crayolas
From which all paper casings have been thumbnailed off.