they will hand you your feelings in a plastic bag
the ones you came here with.
but you've forgotten to be sad to be glad
it will take a while to get used to it;
maybe we'll have a trial run.
some clouds in the sky, a winter sun.
but the reasons why are different now
when you look up
it's only to measure your shadow on the ground.
does it dwindle like some black candle found
or is it used up
or will it torrentially rain
and so profane the wick
its drenched
as if it were your soul extinguished here:
why should I look straight at the light
as if to tarnish it. or assume a reasonable blindness.
or, in the sudden dazzle of daylight
to one long in the city pent as Keats in his teardrop diamond
sonnet, lament once cried while he was still alive
or on a speeding train with few goodbyes and
the train well sped from the storms with no bouquets
will God in his surprises with half the story said:
turn everything to gold and not to lead.
mary angela douglas 28 june 2020
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