each winter,
Princess hems gleam higher,
the luster of pearl on rose,
sheen of ever-youngening skin
snow-globe dreams
tumble, shaken by faceless
fathers and fast-forwards
to the taiga of babushkas
dolls within dolls,
lacquer smiles
the cracking of the world into two
and the opening of New Year gifts:
techno-clones—the spit of silk.
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