Candice Ward
			Luna, parked above the castle on the river that drew the White City to its banks, sees to night at the end of its rope, blots by remote the one way back. A baker's blank iced as the face on Magritte's mother, undercover she's still a looker with an aptitude for pathos-of-distance learning— listen duckling, it goes for the throat (thrush, strep, whistlestop), makes tracks or history, puts a saint in it and pulls away from—how much smaller a red train looks down the laugh lines, the past compacted as trolley memory to run forever, for—cover her face too—night, gowned for deb's rebellion over the trestle, she goes into the woods—hide his eyes, count to ten too many dimensions— in your father's house of cheats there's no mystery but one (who sees the moon?) looking—wet lace mute, a child abridged—back from the brink of an orphan age, already history—