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Reading “Bitter Grounds” from Fragile Things by
Neil Gaiman on the beach supplies a kind
of tantalizing peace I do not find
by tracking with a realistic eye.

I know the risks. I’ve felt the acrid burn,
the pressures of intelligence contrived
by some base fear of disappointment, tried
to be content with what’s already learned.

I just can’t do it. I choose neverlands.
And if my preference to imagine proves
some chimera to be, I’ll learn new moves
of fantasy until I understand

the axis mundi of the personal:
perceiving one affects the universal.


© Elaine Stirling, 2015