were we made of clouds, that suddenly we could not be found
or of the mist that rises from the bitter ground
were we visited by angels only
or stowed in a painting all blues and greens
by Rublev or
hard as stone in the quarry of
an unremitting cold.
who is there to respond.
to speak to us in amber
or to take on the case.
were we members of the human race.
who could spell our story.
we were poets residing in the visionary
beyond contempt.
and so, they hated us
consigning us to quarters.
we never could have imagined
were we mist were we the rains
evaporated entirely the last train out
or something else, regained
something kin to the soul
that outlasts everything.
mary angela douglas 4 november 2019
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