The Postcard From The Alhambra Never Sent

[to Wallace Stevens]

the postcard from the Alhambra never sent

is tinged with rose regrets, perhaps,

a settled aspect to the tinted aqua skies,

the candied rosebud sighs of the Infanta

in fantastic array who wants to play

in the courtyards with the

rose-red day and not

to have her portrait made.

she is just whatever we can say about her anyway:

a mere muting of the perfumed fountains

by whoever feels that way and owns the power

to decree: Segovia never loved his guitarra endlessly-

let the universe weep little stars for the lies

that are told dismantling every siglo de oro,

verilly chided the Princesa

who never could grow old

in that shade of violet.

in a dream I treasured the

distance between sun and sun

and found the yardstick wanting 

in an age of only gold

mary angela douglas 16 november 2013