[“Ah,
Christ I love you rings to the wild sky”
-Allen
Tate (from Sonnets to Christmas)]
climbing
His laddered orchards to the sky,
Christ is
the wound I live in till I die;
the one of
pure gold, the one
unfurnished-
why is the
why I keep on asking still so
hard to
find among all orphaned syllables in disguise;
the thing
you did far better than
anyone has
ever done on the tumbreled way: leaning
into
our eyes,
you rose.
why do
they want to drag you back each time of day
again and
again to that same hill – skeptical of
Glory;
eyeing your splintered heart with the old surmise
of the selfsame
jackdaw disorders: reprised
and
preening.
and
everything is
as though
you had never finished what you started.
I’m
climbing your gleaming orchards to the sky-
the
ladders kicked out from under-
following
the deep marks in the snow the
deep marks
in the snow the
ghost of
water beckoning in the sun-
the
chivalrous pall-
the starry
storied passage through the endless ruins-
to the
only country I can recognize
at all
mary
angela douglas november 18, 19 2012
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