cash given for gold even if it's broken shone
the sign propped in the dusty window near the p.o.
where is gold not broken I thought I
mused in a world made to be golden; only
now I sense the absence of buttercups in
the children's stories and the dandelion
perfume is bitter though profuse,
still, happy to be here
spoked among the grasses.
so am I though
we take what is broken and we don't mind
the light that spills on us when we are
crying inside when we are broken
and no small shop will take us in
to mend us.
o who is always mending the sun
there must be someone
which one? cried the child
there are so many
alive in the universe of myriad spinning
aware that gold is orbiting by us
flashing from star to star
passing away in the corner of a smile
through a turnstile of trembling diamonds
that just keeps turning
mary angela douglas 20 november 2013
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