Friday, December 08, 2017

December. And The Glaze Of The Hour

December. and the glaze of the hour.
and I am looking through it
as if I could see the 

world within the world
where nothing stirs
at a speed you'd recognize

only angels moving slowly
up the trapezoid of time
and time is a circus there

and the angels in the stands
eat peanuts and buy little dolls
with spangly dresses,

eating sweets out of small cups
and waiting for the elephants...

I'm a cotton candy prayer
late winter's child looking 
back at summer tracks in mud

and under the clay baking sun
no longer.
holly's on the doors

and the bright winds sweep through the cracks
while remaining sparrows sing
pecking at the ice

as though it were food.

yesterday I heard as if by mistake,
a friend died last april
to whom I had continued writing

and no dreams came to tell me otherwise.
no angels at the door
with something from that shore

no telegraph relay:

he cannot hear you anymore
he's in the wood beyond the world.

mary angela douglas 8 december 2017