By Jane Frank
There’s a dotted line
between where she ends and the rest
of the world begins,
where those otherworldly creatures
she loves live like pets.
She feeds them.
She drives them where they need to go.
She gives them advice in a voice
that sounds like her own.
There’s a slow damage of words
not falling:
the air is heavy with their absence.
The realm of imagination
has betrayed her.
By luck, she lives in a house surrounded
with enchanted trees
where aureolin birds nest.
She envies their levity and light
across the divide
as they take off into the cosmos,
into a cool, wide expanse of what looks blue.
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