Screens

swallows have gathered at the door of an infinite sadness;
who will remove their shadows from the grass,
from the moon, passing through clouds?

occluded is the eye, becoming a single tear
and the years, in their octobers, rust.
is the heart ash, is it dust, has it come to be

spoken about in whispers
in a hospital room or is it the sudden gloom
in winter, even before the sun has set?

give me,o Lord, a clue, a sign, a dream
while I am standing at the screen door
when the rains come in

still trying to breathe and to assume, nothing:
when meaning becomes so sharp;
filed to a fine point;

to wound the already wounded.

mary angela douglas 22 june 2016