Fractal, fracas, frisée. I’m reading through
the Fs. But then, from there, a short frisson

away to other worlds. In the shade, the quiet
makes the letters squint. Or have I fallen

down a rabbit hole? I see myself among
the curly ferns— I’m still as small

in many ways as in that first rupture;
and everything thereafter, its adjustment.

The key has always been in my skirt pocket—
how could I have forgotten? The pages

bookmarked, I shrink, I crawl; I grow toward
the garden’s checkerboard of grass and roses.


In response to small stone (146).

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