You drop into the little terrarium world of a story or poem.
There is a talking clay dinosaur in it. You look familiar, you say.
She grunts and steps over the broccoli-tufted forest. Trust
means you can be fully here, next to a citizen of Mesozoic 
time, and also exist outside the glass. All I want to do sometimes 
is sleep, you sigh; or read. Every now and then, the shadows 
of flying pterosaurs stretch a fleeting canopy that blots out 
the sun. You're convinced the writing residency you heard 
about is here, somewhere beyond the teaspoon-sized pond 
ringed with moss and breadcrumbs. Breadcrumbs! All you
have to do is find the trail, follow the warm, yeasty smell to
its source. A pearly moon rises, the color of abalone shells.
You must be nearly there, since you've gotten this far. Fern
fronds brush against your fingers like deckle-edged pages.

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