who would know if I did or not.
maybe I do...
usually you outgrow this.
pity. just when you need them possibly
my friends do not mock me at work.
or interrogate me on British authors.
they do not quibble when in a wavering voice
I sing the ballad of anything
I long to.
even with- with- an inordinate amount of
roses and cypresses in it.
even when I pretend I am weaving the web
and cannot look down look down upon Camelot
and then I do and the mirror flies apart
but it does not wound my invisible friends
who have already departed
for the mystical shores.
mary angela douglas 9 april 2016