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White roses and green, the watery vase,

a princess disguised as ordinary–
these set the scenes for my notions of place,
as I trace out the sketch of this story:
With green hills, and green reptiles in hiding,
except for their slitty black-yellow eyes,
my stage screams out with perilous lighting,
except the gleaming that signals surprise:
The actors drop their scripts, and the flowers
fall from the chalk-rock hands of the princess,
and the vase falls, and the Spirit sours–
too many eunuchs, not enough princes:
Until the warrior-sage walks as Word,
and dreams up new roses, fresh, undeterred.
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