things have fallen off a table
and landed where there are pears,
apples
burnished in gold, all rolled away
where we are told odd fables over breakfast
and midas cornered,
the mice pattern fine cloth
allotted the miracle
of a spot of jam
a fallen crumb untouched, not turned to gold.
do I hear singing from the attic,
remotely view
the girl in the pier glass cracked
in the chanson
where the rubies gush through the spires
of the light allotted her
where bluebirds fetched
her snowy gowns?
garlands of myrtle…for a crown
and the three lilies.
and landed where there are pears,
apples
burnished in gold, all rolled away
where we are told odd fables over breakfast
and midas cornered,
the mice pattern fine cloth
allotted the miracle
of a spot of jam
a fallen crumb untouched, not turned to gold.
do I hear singing from the attic,
remotely view
the girl in the pier glass cracked
in the chanson
where the rubies gush through the spires
of the light allotted her
where bluebirds fetched
her snowy gowns?
garlands of myrtle…for a crown
and the three lilies.
Notre Dame.it's not the same.
my poems burst into flame
and the toy ladders cannot reach them
weeping the violet or the rose.
I have composed it in my sleep
the thing to say
when it gets this way
but the throat of the swan
on the spun glass rivieras
is braided with tears.
mary angela douglas 17 april 2019;26 july 2021
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