Dyed Folium Folio for a Scion of Cyan

I have this to say to Stephen King,

Who has no reason to be listening—

If “Fiction is a lie, and good fiction

Is the truth inside the lie,” then

Any poetry is the lie inside the truth,

Or, in terms slightly more your approach,

The dragonling sleeping in that truth.

Who knows how it got to the thrift store

In the first place? Maybe in a trousseau 

Donated from a great-grandmother’s attic,

Inside a decorated ostrich egg, sounding

Hollow when you shook it, padded among

Old cardigans and the mysterious pink

Wedding dress for a small-bodied woman

That jumped like the flare of an unlit match

Dropped into slumbering, dark-bluish coals.

I’d like to read a good story about that

Soft, embroidered, beaded, fitted bodice 

That still smells of lavender, and the single

Page of what looks like an illuminated

Manuscript in a pretended language,

Slightly purplish letters curling toes in faux

Gothic. How’d that get tucked in the dress?

And why does the hollow egg start to rattle

As it sits on a shelf in the back of the shop

Where the dress hangs in the front window,

On a back street in the summer sun

Long ago, in Boise, Idaho?