of the dollmaker who built the world and you a doll made of peoplestuff. The dollmaker stuffed you full to bursting with longing and urges. So you set yourself to filling the dollhole (the funeral march of the dolls!) I was a doll for a time but now, well, I'm a whole dollfull or you grow weary or injuries add up or you lose your love of dolldom (dolling around is all we've ever known!) Awake! you suspect another way—outside the playroom still dollish but . . . lighter? the door to the playroom is: secret? heavy? What is outside the playroom you ask the other dolls. One beams you a dollsmile.
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Poems from Other Days
September 2021
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