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Not all stores have a LOST CHILDREN section,
but they should. You would not believe the ghosts

who pass through, confused, an endless legion
unaware that they’re dead. I love these Hosts

of the Air, as the Irish call them. Fey,
banshee-wild-eyed and wailing. I wail, too.

As do you. A child is bewitched away,
a sop of wood left in her place. Who knew

you could fall in love with a changeling?
You were once a child of honey, hemlock

and wine. Some say you can’t go back. Bollocks!
Childhood is not a one-way bridge. Dreaming

of the Fairy Down, come, hold me, we’ll walk
entwined, until dawn break and the crow cocks.