To The Blue Knight, Wandering

the knight on the blue road wandering...
and does he keep sheer distance to himself,
who can tell?

will anyone tell anything to him
between war and war
or break the spell of the

blue knight on his neverland verandas;
in his lavish confusions,
his scalded musings, costumed?

when it's coming down with the
scenery on a childhood stage;
and crystal apples

in a corner room
he never redeemed
roll under a

scuffed bureau.

some tinted postcards,
partly cloudy days
from a Princess stranded

on the Glass Hill.

these artifacts you
know so well,
or think you do

halfway through the door
with the warped screen
with your fresh questionaires:

can't you see can you see
his lance askance
a not so glimmering Age

totally at odds?
oddments in his pockets with the keys;
with the rusted bread and cheese,

the twilight breviaries.
at a loss to know what people generally feel

in these circumstances
as they deal him out
of their rose tiled villages

and simple merriment
of a Saturday.

and how they don't
know how it feels to be
the knight at dusk

almost blending into the skies;
the one with shorn summers.

and does he hide
his sometime sapphire tears
until cool winds carry them away

and are they his sweethearts
far away, twinkling, the

small blue stars?

far away far away.
and this is his song

I plucked out of a dream crease
on a pink paper napkin day
as if it were one wing.

and for
the shimmering things

so near him, close at hand
if only he could understand.

mary angela douglas 28 september 2015