not one with hair like the sun,
but with a dusty halo of grey smoke
And the lawnmower is buzzing
towards her in straight lines
up and
down
the lush green lawn--
up and
down
a predictable path, creating
a hypnotic pattern in the earth's
prickly carpet.
Her fragile, powdery head (((floats)))
above the grass and should be able
to see: the oncoming doom. But
she can't move. She's planted,
rooted in the stubborn dirt of her fate.
The two-way abstraction called love
is propped up by air
shaped into sounds
of hollow faith:
words;
at times, even less than.
Because as long as the mirage
****hovers****
inside the tiny jewelry box
inside her mirrored ears,
she will swim in that pool
until it all dries up,
sucking the last drop of milk
from
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her hapless
dandelion
heart.