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These poems don’t seem like true poems
Anymore—more like the frames
For Cornell boxes, or windows
Pretending to be portals
Pretending to be to worlds,
Or tiny wedges of prayers
Slipped in between the real poems.

Between the true poems, maybe
There’s always a wailing wall,
Always an alternative
World only portal to more,
Each window a world itself
As assembled—translucent,
Crystal, sealed—locked arrangement.