The Magician At The Close Of Day

somewhere I have never traveled gladly beyond any experience

e.e. cummings


should I walk on perennial stilts to join the circus

keep creaming the new moons into quarters that shine

draw scarves out of thin air and being the many coloured

Valentine

in my dream that closes... or it shuts like cummings'

poem

on the somewhere the rose has never been seen

that delicate, that apprehending as though it were made

of snows. evanescence is a tough act to follow.

when it is we ourselves slipping in and out of clouds

not only the copper moon

will I sleep till noon. will I understand again the language of

birds

if I am careful never to say a bruising word or will my heart

suddenly burst into paper flowers or fly into the furnace

and burn for hours like the tin soldier and the ballerina

flung by unexpected winds into the forevers

how can I write the arc of the story when it's me

and I know the egg timer's set and there's isnt time to say

everything

one feels when the branches are lacework against the sky

the crossstitch of the violets and of the Spring moon

embroidered embroidered on an empty loom.

mary angela douglas 2 may 2020