Scribes

the blackbirds in the margins of their songs

are long past earth

and poured out gold that

you can't see

my silence breaks apart

but not from theirs

on branches of anomalie.

this is the rippled singing

I believe, and God,

I'm not ashamed of there or anywhere at All

while here the meatless

spaghetti boils over again..

for it's wreathed in stove-top mists

the blackbirds in the margins of

their sighs will rise with grace notes, duly noted...

sweet cherried jubilee

just when you are reading in your room

or prescient, in the back garden

by the tangerine nasturtiums...

over your shoulder,

flocking jewels-

and in your heart as on no other day the

sparkling arrows of the inexplicable-

mary angela douglas 4-6 september 2011