at the tearstreaked window of a dream
and slept a troubled sleep
this is not the city I remember
the one of green spires.
the one where miracles happened
while you buttered your bread
and put your school dress
over your head
and found the other shoe
and stood for a moment at the bureau's mirror
assuming you would always
gaze back the same way.
you can't say enough to strangers
these days about how it feels
to no longer be living on the earth
the way you were and that even the earth,
with its alien picnics,
with not even the same stars or zoo animals,
doesn't seem to know who you are now.
mary angela douglas 5 july 2016