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