piled up high, the little pink cakes, the alibis
for why don't most read poetry anymore
especially not from the Holy Ghost
or why do they call poetry
that which is not
the rooms where moonlight never seeps
all deeps unfathomed.
fathomless it is to me
what poetry has come to be
yet I dream all the gold it ever was
and will not let it go.
mary angela douglas 29 december 2016