slippered dreams of returning
to a far-off land labeled home,
I click my heels three times. Nothing
happens but another scuff
I cannot cover up with blood-marker
rubbings. There is no magical
wizard behind curtain, no alternative
method of transport at the ready.
I am still cowardly and heartless,
my rusting brain overstuffed with idols.
Winged monkeys and good fairies
fly amok before dropping
like leaden stones through the glass
pond of my reflection. I see myself
in pieces, too obscure to form
a whole. I have
through myself, my imagination
trailing behind, a tornado
devouring path and past.