Elizabeth lived in times
Exact reference wasn’t
The most poetic target.
What’s the best thing in the world?
She asked, then answered herself—
Something out of it, I think—
How the mind works, when you blink,
And it finds anti-matter
In a box by gunpowder
In the cool, shadowy back
Of a storage room, among
Soft scents of lumber and dust.
Experience is one thing,
The hunch there’s more’s another.
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