Under the Locust Tree
by Glen Armstrong
To her, the stuff inside a stone
was bigger than the stone itself.
She somtimes napped in a hammock
under the locust tree.
To her, each named thing
whether dreamed or held in the hand
suffered its own unique phantom limb.
Here and elsewhere were relative.
On another street where love and chance
canceled each other out.
And another, where fractures in the glass
eyes of baby dolls
saddened her more for their old-timey pull
than their damage,
more for their somewhere
than their here among the spider lilies.
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