Lost Girl

She had the words. She knew she had the words.
They forested her, dimmed the light. Her limbs
Spread, palms outstretched to block her movement. She
Had no idea which way to go. She cut
The roots, expecting she would float away -
She tumbled, crushed the touch-me-nots. Brown seeds
Shot out from curling pods. Forget-me-nots
As blue as bluets made mere scents of crushed
Herbaceousness the moment her trunk landed.
So certain, she set out, discovering
New lands — she named new things — but she will not
Return to tell us what she saw. No blaze
Was ever made. She’ll be forgotten, turn
To soil, become the forest floor, mere food
For fungi. The…




An Anthology of Metamodern Poetry by Troy Camplin

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Troy Camplin

Troy Camplin

I am the author of “Diaphysics” and the novel “Hear the Screams of the Butterfly.” I am a consultant, poet, playwright, novelist, and interdisciplinary scholar.

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