The Poem Is At The End Of A Road

the poem is at the end of a road
a road snowed over or do you even know;
you carry the moon by its ivory handles

(the world has come apart this way)
sad ship in a bottle; how did it get this way,
no longer sailing on water.

the poem is sailing somewhere else than here.
you hear it calling from another chamber and
as though you were pinned in a caved in sound

crystal shattered all around (the stars,
you hardly whispered);
a blistering wind, the voice of friends

you saw;you felt, you thought you heard
there, in the forest
of dimming words.

you thought you thought
a herd of angels is crying.

mary angela douglas 6 november 2018