[to Christ the Lord, even so...]
a harp is weeping at the door:
I have found an inconsolable stillness here;
there were jewels
they didn't come back for
even though the moonlight read:
here you will find the harp at the door.
it will be weeping.
now the glissando of the things that did not happen
is struck is struck down
by angels sparing you the memory of what was never intended
spoken into the funnel of jeweled afternoon.
or maybe it is that you had merely dropped
in leaves the colour of rust
the fairytale instructions
on the way to the Castle
so that some have turned to magic in no refined mood
self-spelled in the spume of the proud clouds drifting over:
itinerant traces of a yearning music
far from the range of their hearing it, now.
oh think but not too long on those
oh those-
who labored hammering
into such a soundless arc
the jeweled manifest of His singing
mary angela douglas 13-22 january 2013
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