In an L-shaped room
a familiar man directs me to the second-floor.
My path is covered in glass,
and the bodyguard at the base of the stairs says,
"Now I have no escape."
I tiptoe past the shards
to the upper unwalled floor.
I speak to a short girl,
blonde ringlets framing her porcelain features,
wearing a Victorian-style dress—
Ozma.
She opens her fairytale
and we begin to read.
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