Meat for Dreams
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She looks at tin-types, antique brown
girls holding shadowed hoops. They stare
forever from their frame, fine hair
with tangled ribbons. In her town,
the house still stands on rotted beams.
The girls play only under glass,
their squandered lifetimes only grass.
This instant, sealed, is meat for dreams.
Karen Tellefsen
kat2@mindspring.com