I, too, come from the city of dolls. A small palm is my umbrella. This takes care of above but below, the blind river of sadness rolls on and in it, a hand is always reaching up to pick fish from the night-time sky. The lines on the palm of the hand lure a trout with a strand of hair from the head of a doll. The bait is the hope for a hand on your brow. Shadows play on the wall. Or the face of a doll. The plants eyeing each other is all. I would not call the stars generous. They don't cry enough for dolls to play Drink Me. They don't cast a covenant's fishy rainbow yet leaf faces watch the open window where they hang far and hard. The rein of starlight a second hand with which to play Go Fish. Now Give me a hand, plants. Now give me good-night, stars.
I saw that a star had broken its rope in the stables of heaven— This homeless one will find her home in the foothills of a green century. Who sleeps beside still waters, wakes. The terrestrial hands of the heaven clock comb out the comet's tangled mane and twelve strands float free. In the absence of light and gravity, slowly as dust, or the continents' drift, sinuous, they twine a text, one letter to an eon: I am the dawn horse. Ride me.