the Blackguard's phone rings on and on
into a strange infinity
but no one's there to take the call.
a Mobius sun stands still-
like the hushed instant before Fatima.
you're not that far from home anymore:
for true friends there's the
Father, Son, the Holy Ghost.
you take your basket from its peg
with its pot of honey-butter, elderberry
jam and rolls; its fine napkin
embroidered with the universe.
your rose-red cape
becomes you so.
and straight out on the
flower-strewn road, this
time-
engulfed by the waiting Shadow of the King-
the muzzled wolf's delayed-
mary angela douglas 4 june 2010
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