on the frames of magnetic doorways,
the ledges of high corners
and running pipes that sing
along her secret walks
with a burlap handbag.
Each one wears
a bemused half-smile
like hers, each one
is a serene and floating
signature, each one
a peach-perfect
silent-feathered Mona Lisa.
The bag emptied of bath toys,
distilled to its girlish ingredients,
she leaves the scene
with its architecture of ducks
to be puzzled over,
radiant and intact,
others to inhabit the mystery
of which she is the ignition,
queen of ducks
and their many perches,
sower of frozen wings
who flies away,
ethereal prankster.
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