Rediscovery

Illusions are made visible with hands.
They are gestures and fallen shadows and scraps of fingernail gnawed and spat.
Today she woke holding, worshiping like a nutcracker
a mini-princess shrunken driftwood idol, sun-greyed and splintery
in the form of a chubby woman with a rusty nail pegged in her heart.
Eventually the doll faded into the cement sidewalk background
and was gone.

In waking, words that might have been said were not, were holograms of private musings
projected in the sky-space between cutout volcanoes at dusk,
what a view,
complete with the click of film-reel and the smell of popcorn.

The universe has her stationed bird's eye overtop what appears to be a bowling lane,
an overshined peachgrease ribbon of floor.
Packages arrive, dropped from somewhere above, and slide down the strip in slow,
slow-motion time. It has her perched like fish lips on a delicious bud
of silken rock moss, nursing away with a fish smile, palms (or wingfins) extended upward,
she executes a fingertip survey of the waxy skin behind sleeping men's ears,
blindly examines the finely-stitched velour details
of items of furniture in the dark.