lost poets on the decks of their lost words
are always setting sail and setting sail again
out of our sightless sight when the books are closed…
o open the Moroccan green Atlas
to the page with the sugar-candy stain
or the baby’s tears from 1913
and start, again
to read the golden primers of the sun
and, one by one, even if it takes all day
because
we’ve lost the maps to everything and cannot run.
the princess sits in the corner incapable of spinning
forgetting the way
that mica flashed in certain stones
on a path she knew was still her very own
not all that long ago
oh once there was a ship and laden
with so many things, it may be
every one was only launched
from a far-off time
to thee…
mary angela douglas 30 june 2013
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