Saturday, July 16, 2016

The Dreams Of Descartes On Falling Apart

mapping the planes from point to point
and the high, Inward, vanishing:
is this where the messenger falters

at the door, leaving the scraps behind?
never mind. what is lost at twilight is lost.
and there, remain; not knowing if this

is the path or that one, which?
and the light twitches and is gone.
and the sparks flew through the room,

the unheralded thunder; the book on the table,
of poetry, blew open at a certain point
and then half closed when he awoke.

take heed from this, his startled angels cried,
what you may and then they disappeared.
and this was years and then

what answer to the generations
can be derived?
dreams come. they go. and fall apart,

the gilded tissue of what is most fragile:

man, standing alone,
or thinking he does;
with nothing before or after.

mary angela douglas 16 july 2016