standing before the space where
poems may come
you dodge the thrift of
ravens overhead the blue ribboned kind
of wounding competitions
seen and unseen
the withered branches
branching
it is
held in the heart like snow
almost appearing-
very near
in the shade of ghosted apples
they can't pick
in the frost-
tipped syllables backstage
or in the hold of a ship
they'll never sail the
blue crystal distances
you understand-
without being told
and the next gold radiance you
hear will slip, alas! from view
down down and down the dead words
told to much applause by vague
passersby who live to silence
who can say what as long as they're ahead:
the jeweled watch unjeweled
the sentries astonished-
the gnashing instant the
rose is tipping so ivoire into
ceaseless light
you catch in your weeping hands-
mary angela douglas 26 october 2009
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