in the ballet you trained for
even in sleep...
beyond the effects of tulle,
the momentary sparkle;
the sprite poised at the edge of the woods,
the burgundy roses tossed and the rustling of programs.
this is the denouement of
dancing off the edge of the stage;
the exodus into the crowds
under the clouds of rose and blue
that do not mirror the earth,
the earth at this moment
with its opaque lakes,
its noncommital paths, its obscurity;
when you float without wings
toward the choreography of the sun.
mary angela douglas 30 july 2016