sometimes everything is foreign
though I walk luminous streets
as if my soul were swept away
like crumbs
despite all the churches
and the kingdom comes
the riveting sound of bells
I try to sleep but the trains arent running
shifting from one corner to the same one back
so someone else can vacuum
my apparent lack
I am intractable through inspections
a quarter sized note
a ship that cannot sail.
I am the dust of flowers, the rainbow mote
the pines hacked down
the ghost of the ghost town several times removed
the tidal wave come down on the milky stars
and something wants to say, in lilac, flood tide speech
why is what is so out of reach
that it cannot be said
a something without a name in singular or plural
fire without flame and the winter sun
bestir yourself an ancient voice belies
but the angels standing guard don't budge
holding the line while they infer in silver:
not this time.
mary angela douglas 5 january 2020
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