If We Write

if we write on the last of the notebook paper
our last wishes
would this be a testament

to the volumes of the blue bird
I saw in a corridor well guarded
where I stepped around shattered glass

will this dream last gingerly
my angels chimed in snows
that fell in the corridor of a dream

where the further volumes of The Bluebird shone
maybe I'm not as far from home as
I always imagined

all things being equal, but are they
I'm dressed in blue forget me not and
wandering among books with antique

blue bindings
embossed with the moon on their spines
and this is night or I think it was

in the colours of hydrangea
and the moon is engraved on the spine
of the books in the blue libraries

weeping sapphires

that I remove to false alarms
it being dusk
and they are searching for who

are yous among my
confliscated belongings
for who

removed them but I think
but they are mine and
why are their guards

near the magnolias
in our old backyard
and I remember the dream of their sheen

as a dream within a dream
like Calderon
was like the sheen of music

the dusk of all my wishes
each one a star
I am lighting all my candles

in the far, far blue.

mary angela douglas 18 december 2017