could unaccustomed radiance be returning?
you asked yourself
at the intersection
of so much green in the tidal pools
with your reverie of
the strawberry moon.
maybe it’s not that far away
murmured the captain so
near the golden iceburg,
veering off-course.
a child just waking up too fast half
saw the laddered moonlight
reaching into far angels;
Rilke, at his ease, and freed from the
nervous tea party with Edith Wharton
in her new rose rapture of a hat Henry James
failed to notice at dinner.
among far rosebuds, nectar bright,
when will we be home I
wondered, not for the first time ever
rinsing the frothy whitecaps out
of a Sunday night’s kitchen sink-
mary angela douglas 26 august 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment