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She has a title

There must be a box of things to say but she cannot
sort them or the words have all gone.
There are many words somewhere but they are unavailable to her.
She is sure there is an image, a comparison, but hidden as stories
in the morning shut themselves in the dream cupboard of that night.


She has the title
It sits at the top
of a page
in her notebook
a fat strawberry
on the little friand
she wants to give us
but the ground almonds
the egg whites and sugar
the beating and folding
the pouring into cupcakes
the brief time in a hot oven,
there are none of these.


She cannot sing in her big garden
and no sound comes from her throat.

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