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Isabella
Her laugh is the yellow
lightning on winter nights that floods
the valley's sides, Isabella.
Her breath is pine in the sun
and braised in the rain,
the rush of the tide onto rocks. Isabella!
Isabella, Isabella,
where are you marching
your unquestioning battalions?
It's time for the truth: Isabella
doesn't exist outside this poem,
but she doesn't know that yet, nor ever will.
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