A boy in some Dickens school
tipped his inkwell
and poured out a continent
of black sail, lines flapping as
a map crackled
in her luggage. Thrust and parry.
a bud, a parachute,
the crystal still packed into point,
the miniature ship,
lines collapsed, before
it's in the bottle.
a trip to the Azores,
the carnation she found while walking
her dog on the lake,
its stem a green line of oxygen,
the dog's leash a Red Giant,
the fog off the lake that rendered thoughts
none of this relevant to the lost pilot or
the girl visited
on the beach by Amelia Earhart,
whose navigator went down with her,
but of whom we never speak.
My Diamond Dog, never
on a leash, it's always
is visibly tethered to her,
the Martian line glowing on a foggy beach.
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