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Isabella
Your laugh is like the yellow
Lighting in summer that floods
The valley's sides. Isabella.
Your breath is pine-in-the-sun scented
And then baked-earth-in-the-rain
Then tide-rushing-onto-black-rocks.
Your heart thumps like army boots.
Where are you marching your
Unquestioning battalions, Isabella?
And now to come clean:
Isabella
Doesn't exist, except in this poem.
But she doesn't know that yet, nor ever will.
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