You are not real, said a voice.
The phantoms flee
gibbering like ghosts.
Tinkerbell Naassene priestess,
ghosts flock across her manifest hand
that holds my hand
to her sloping Ganges
that boils them from me.
Forms from my sister’s spell.
That washes form
through to else.
Hand, yes,
in the heavenly river
clutching a rung
clutching itself
and then the next.
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