knocking the paper doors down
that they have made of You
I turned away,
not knowing where to go
with my child-sized suitcase, in
my red cloth shoes.
the clock of yearning's set to
endlessness and
I weep on pouring the news out to the wind
but it's like a ripped-out seam within
not knowing when I'll find
all my lost porches
floating backwards on the Tide
and my best dishes, ringed with ferns...
when one Word tolls the
bells that they have muted, smashed-
maybe snow-jeweled quietude
will return
but now I only find
that I am I
and dream for you even
without knowing how.
ethereal clouds will come
and their attendant angels
as if from an extended Trip:
bring me crushed violets
bunched
in silver ribbons strewn
the never-ending stars
the winding mists to live in-
mary angela douglas 25 august 2011
