A boy in some Dickens school
tipped his inkwell
and poured out a continent
of black sail, lines flapping as
a map crackled
in her luggage. Thrust and parry.

Tight,
a bud, a parachute,
the crystal still packed into point,
the miniature ship,
lines collapsed, before
it's in the bottle.

Puffy coat,
a trip to the Azores,
the carnation she found while walking
her dog on the lake,
its stem a green line of oxygen,
the dog's leash a Red Giant,

the fog off the lake that rendered thoughts
of disappearance,
none of this relevant to the lost pilot or
the girl visited—
a visitation!—
on the beach by Amelia Earhart,
whose navigator went down with her,
but of whom we never speak.

My Diamond Dog, never
on a leash, it's always
running away.
Her dog
is visibly tethered to her,
the Martian line glowing on a foggy beach.