SPEAKING ENGLISH

SPEAKING ENGLISH

to the green memory of the English Romantic Poets

(REPOSTED ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF JOHN KEATS DEATH, FEBRUARY 23 AT THE AGE OF 25)

courting the fair lost wonder of the skies the ghosts of English poets stood out in the rain wondering what happened to the world edged all around in gold; edged all around in gold, who bartered what for what and keyed it all down so softly, by degrees, in the pearl smudged day we hardly noticed when the Word left glistening, alone as though it had never been spoken into green. let the fairy ferns bend down their fronds through these wrecked dells, now out-of-the-way and the musk roses sigh in the Borderlands that even light dwindles, dividing itself into itself and praising nothing. O eglantine! O mild musk roses blowing… brief Tyrian clouds above the foaming cliffs were mine, but they swept by my childhood's aching that denied-not real enough, was said. leaving me nothing more to say at school but to hobble on, ever-after with the clipped birds from my hocked fairytales their scissors sawed part-through I'll never be real without them- who wants to be baked inside a very tasty gingerbread by the witchy experts stealing the names that color the soul- this has always been oh my little little child. pretending to grow wiser you'll escape even further into the woods of gold and silver embossing- pure silence gathers stars. and treasured there you're a better country without bitterness… this is the part of the story where you disappear, like a pearl in the pearl of mist or cloud still owned by God and safe from lies. It shall be so. till the day you can come back with all the light-rescinded years, the hollowed out rinds of suns and snows, the wayward sparrows glinting in the shadows not in vogue Oh God what's singing for Or speaking- If it isn't this: to brand on the wasted heart incessant amazement- to be leased by God. you'll wake to wonder, too, so all- at-once to see each drowsing castle in familiar mists of rose: the small house in the clearing brimmed with Christmas lights, the bright fields sown of the full-throated music, you did not disown- mary angela douglas 11-12 december 2011

Some Notes For The Ballet

for George Balanchine

what if the dancer lept over the moon

so that her skirts of violet tulle

caught on the early stars to leave her spinning there

and left you wondering where you are;

is this still the ballet are we en pointe?

I feel that way in these post modern times

what has happened to music

does water flow the same way;or is it all uphill now

are there still fountains

courtyards, moments of peacock display i

Juliet, pensive in rose on the balconies

any cause at all that is not political

have people played so many games smoting the beautiful

for its aeathetic side so that it is

Forever now that is waving goodbye to you

you glimpse in every mirror,storefrnt as she floats by.

mary angela douglas 29 august 2020

To Kaye, Lost Among The Ice Puzzles

 {(Gerda’s lament, from a song cycle for The Snow Queen and with a bouquet of mignonette)}

(and To Hans Christian Andersen for his fable, The Snow Queen)

==============================================================

how will you weep then

in such a glacial land

or will you wait for the thaw when

you will take the census of their tears

you whom I knew for years

and no longer recognize because

you do not recognize me!

though in dreams I hold the sun in my hands

till it burns quite through

beseeching you oh K.

remember when we played

the world would be always green?

and we would be king and queen

and oh the cracked mirror in your eyes

has wounded all flowers forever

K will you never never look upon summer again

without your compass with the surveyor’s kit

she gave you last Christmas breathing on the glass

of your paralysis.

I look for roses but they are spent

For the little balcony with the geraniums

where we were  but all all has whirled away

losing the laughing  the brightening names and the shine on the 

waters in a kingdom calculating everything down

to the last son and daughter

down to the bitter weeds of all regret.

mary angeladouglas 28 august 2020

The Lantern Bearer

when everything seems washed out by the floods

and all the colours of all things feel washed out too

and you stand watch with flickering lantern

over the bridge that is no more the ghost bridge

and see lost soldiers over the ridge

into the mists of where they were before plunging

and with their wild and stricken horses plunging

into the wars before world without end

dont you pray some angel comes with a radiant message

closing the door forever on all sorrows.

between right now and all tomorrows.

mary angela douglas 27 august 2020

I Don't Have To Be Cinderella To Dream

I don't have to be Cinderella to dream

that I am sitting by the pond near the willows

when the ripples come up to my feet and I am standing

awash in the pearl waters of my sleep

and happy in a way I cannot describe even if it's not

like fireworks over the castle

even if it's not the coach and four all in gold

the brocade gown glimmering in all the colours

God ever made if it's not so lemonade in the shade

still it's my dream. it's quiet there.

and a sky of rose sings over me as the larks go.

mary angela douglas 27 august 2020

Waving Goodbye To Ray Bradbury Again

 [waving goodbye to Ray Bradbury again;remembering my own work too:HYMN TO GOD MY GOD IN MY RETREATS;THE LITTLE SETBACKS

(waving goodbye again to Ray Bradbury, after his 100th birthday...

remembering my first steps into poetry as into snow walking blind)===================================

to flowers whose names I've never known

wildflowers in the Himalayas

crab apple in the Milky Way

recently christened stars, Alpha Centura or Mars

sun flares already finished with their spectrums

and the sunflower husks shed

while I was waiting for the school bus. amid the maple leaves.

let there be this understanding between us

may there be wild orchids in the desert of my retreats

and little setbacks:

i still will count the opal names of God exquisitely to myself

forgetting all else, all other names

and remember the coolness of evening winds

the jade winds of april

the songs I laid down at Your feet

when I was only fifteen.

mary angela douglas 25 august 2020

Asking A Little Favor

PSALM 3:3

to all  those choosing a job and not a life

I have a favor to ask of you alright

wuhen those of us who chose the other way

and risked it all so that the green in us would not fade

or the green in the world

when we dont succeed your way

can you at least have the decency to say

should we pass your way

nothing about how your taxes supported us

because they really don't

money isn't God.

mary angela douglas 25 august 2020

The Child That Waters the Rose Tree With Her Tears

the child that waters the rose tree with her  tears

is standing with her watering can at the gate

so those who come to see her in the belle epoch painting

can't know they are a century too late

to take her small hand by the shrubbery

when a small cloud comes to hide the radiant sun

to tell her do not cry oh Cinderella

a magic garden waits for little ones

for little ones who cannot understand

the reasons they are scolded out of hand

put in their Sunday frocks and given cakes at times

and other times, forsaken forsaken forsaken

mary angela douglas 25 august 2020

To Jack Who Was Most Fortunate

to Jack Johnson, the grandfather i never met

who would have ever thought that day

you traded the Jersey cow for a handful of beans

that you would ever have come out

on the golden side of THAT bargain

who knew, who knew or did anyone say

you may, Jack, if you may

recover the way to all the lost harps and

Song.

mary angela douglas 24 august 2020

Forever Turning The Dire Into The Beautiful

for You who exist beyond Time
forever turning the dire into the beautiful
finding the diamond stars in the mire
what can we say to you that is not cloud language,
the heavy snows on the way
and we beholding Christmas
for you opening the heavy curtains on the splendor of the day
where we lived among dust motes, and scattered sheet music
I will stand at the screen door beholding everything green
and the Angelus bells will play; it will be April.
I will stand at the opal beginning and begin to pray
you who are beyond Time, please make me that way.

mary angela douglas 24 august 2020

What Ray Might Say Today If He Came Back for His 100th Birthday

for Ray Bradbury on his 100th birthday and all those who love him and his stories...forever

to live in the beauty of the story as it is unfolding is granted to only some

to fix the moment like a star, like a red leaf falling

to remember the air crisp as apples

the shadow on the stair to recreate

the sudden shaft of sunlight through the emerald trees

the snow crowning everything the wilderness rains

I tried I tried to see and be this simultaneously

to freeze all the fragile disappearing

through a lens of rose or one of amber October shearing

not only to compose the music but to live within it

singing and singing

I am alive in all the cherry red dimensions

as far as the reach of white blue space

and heaven and earth besides

right now in the honeyed cornucopia of all my days and ways

and you are alive too. darling reader

darling and ever christened ever living reader

beyond the margins of all the stories that are

that were, that ever will be.

as far as the marigold eye can see.

mary angela douglas 22 august 2020

Pink Flowers Yellow Starred

maybe you will say pink flowers starred yellow in the grass

are so small a thing that there are too many poems about flowers already

and what is the point but they were my pink flowers when I was little

and I loved them

and when I remember them I also remember the sidewalk leading up to our brick house they bordered

and I remembered them later when I thought about that poem from Tennyson

my mother loved about the flower in the crannied wall

and these things are linked in my mind and heart even as I fade slowly from earth myself

and remember my Grandmother's inscription in my ivory Bible with the gold edged pages

where in her fine penmanship my Grandmother wrote to me in the house with the little pink flowers

"The grass withers, the flower fades. But the Word of our God shall stand forever."

mary angela douglas 21 august 2020

A LIST OFSOME OF MY FAVORITE POEMS ON THIS BLOG THAT I HAVE AUTHORED

 I SAW THE GHOST OF WALTER DE LA MARE

THERE WILL BE A SNOWFALL OF POEMS

LET POETRY BE CROWNED AGAIN WITH FLOWERS

FOR HAROLD BLOOM A VALEDICTION OF SORTS

THE ISLANDS OFF THE LOST COAST OF MONET

THE CHILDHOOD OF MARCEL PROUST

I GATHERED FRESH GARDENIAS;YOU WERE MISSING

THOMAS CHATTERTON (1752-1770)

IT ISN’T SO MUCH MAGIC AS IT IS BEAUTY

TO THE MOONBYRD, WANDERING

RAIN REFLECTS INCIDENT LIGHT

THE TINMAN’S CHRISTMAS DREAM

PIANO RECITAL WITH PINK CARNATIONS, RED GLADIOLI

LISTENING FOR THE BEGINNING OF SNOWS, WHITE FLOWERS, CELESTA

I LOST THE COLORS OF GIOTTO

OH GIOTTO! ALL YOUR COLOURS ARE

SHE ALSO WAS TRUE

MARISOL IN WINTER SUNLIGHT

SNOW DREAMED

WHATEVER SONG I KNOW

TOLL SOFTLY FOR CHRISTIANE SHEER ROSEPETALED SONG

SCARECROW NOT QUITE DISSOLVING BY ORANGE LOLLIPOP LAMPLIGHT

AS IF IT COULD BE THAT WAY

LAMENT OF LEONARDO ON A LOST NOTEBOOK

SHED NO TEARS, FOND UNICORN

CINDERELLA. CENDRILLON

VIVID

JANE EYRE

FOR THE MOMENT, A SANSKRIT ILLUMINATION

I WAS WEARING A DRESS OF IMPEACHABLE HUE

GALILEO GALILEO

IMPRESSSIONS OF THE DEATH OF GARCIA=LORCA: ON A PALE GREEN VELVET PIANO

SONG FOR THE LAST INTERVIEW

SPEAKING ENGLISH

HER LAST LETTER TO LYTTON

PLAY SOMETHING ON THE VIOLIN FOR RILKE

OSIP MANDELSTAM

MY SOUL IS A TRACELESS WOUND

WHAT MUSIC THERE IS

CANTICLE FOR ROBIN WILLIAMS

TO THE BEAUTIFUL KINGDOM OF NORWAY

DRESS CODE

BILLY THE KID IN A SKY BLUE KERCHIEF

THE SCARECROW MIXED HIS TENSES, BUT HE SMILED

LET US RETURN TO THE COUNTRY OF CLOUDS

AFTER THE GAELIC

SNOW SHOULD FALL LIKE AN EYELASH FROM THE MOON

PAVANE

WHEN WILL WE BE MELTING

IN THE COUNTRY

CHACONNE FOR FEDERICO

IN THE PALACE OF INCREDIBLE ROSES

OOPS, I FELL DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

DELLA ROBBIA AND OTHER THINGS

I WENT BACK TO FIND THE GOLDEN

THIS, AND THE THIMBLES SCATTERED

MEMENTO VIVERE

HAS ANYONE SEEN MY ROSE VELVETEEN FLATS

AZUL

THINGS HAVE FALLEN

AND EVERY NIGHT WE LEAVE IN DREAMS

THE KITCHEN MAID REMEMBERS THE EMPEROR’S NIGHTINGALE

AROUND THE FAIRY TALE’S GEM-STONED PAGE

PARTICOLOURED TEARS WERE FALLING THROUGH THE EVENING BLIND

THE ROSE-RED SEALING WAX ON THE LETTER’S DRY NOW

DROWNING HAPPY

HAMELIN

JAQUES BREL

GREEN VIOLIN

A CHERRY LEMONADE FOR THE MAN ON THE VELOCIPEDE PLEASE

IN THE DEEP SHADE OF LUSCIOUS CHERRY LANGUAGE

SPELLING

SO JEWELED IN THE STIRRUPS FLASH THE OUTRIDERS

WHERE IS THE BEAUTIFUL KINGDOM WHERE YOU WERE

LAST MINUTE CHRISTMAS EVE, 1964

TOURING ANGELS

VAN GOGH TO HIS BROTHER, UNDATED LETTER, SUMMER 1891

EMILY, IT IS GETTING LATE

THEN THE PROSCENIUM LIKE A VIVID ROSE

THEY ALWAYS LIVED

COMING FROM THE CINEMA I MET MY SOUL

I LOST THAT SUMMER WALKING ON

ALICE THE SMALL AND BRAVE BEFORE THE FANTASTIC

EPIPHANY OF THE WHITE APPLES

ONCE DARING THAT INTEMPERATE FLIGHT

THE WRIGHT BROTHERS

SUNDAY BEST WORDS

PINK CHALK MOON RISING BEHIND A BLUE

KING MIDAS, LAST SPRING

ON LOOKING INTO A HIGH SCHOOL CHEMISTRY BOOK

THE FUTURE OF SNOW

LION, TINMAN AND SCARECROW

I DREAMED OF THE SEA, OF THE CHILDREN OF LIR

PHILLIPE PETIT BALANCED ON HIS BEST DAY

THE DEPARTING AVIATOR

CANDLEMAS

JUMBLED SEWING BASKET, GREEN AND WHITE WICKER

THE DOCUMENTS THE QUEEN MUST NEVER SEE

PEACH SWUNG IN THE VERNACULAR DAY AFTER MAYA DIED

CRACKING THE MOLD THEY MADE FOR YOU

ANYONE’S HEART BREAKING OVER THE WORLD IS

YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN PAINTED IN A LILAC MIST

A SILVER BRANCH IS

ENTRETAT

EPHEMERAL

HOW BEAUTIFUL ARE YOUR BAZAARS OH LORD

LETTER TO ST. CATHERINE OF SIENNA

MANASSAS, i REMEMBER

ASHPUTTEL

MAYBE ONE DAY WE’LL ALL RETURN TO OZ

ASLAN

ALL HIS INFINITE LABOURING AT BRIGHT COINCIDENCE

MYSTICAL EVENINGS AT THE PTA

THE SINGULAR DREAM OF THE ELEPHANT MAN

PALM SUNDAYS

THE SNOW SLEDGE DRIVES THROUGH LACQUERED LANDS

WHITE JADE

TESSERAE

WE WERE IN BLUE SHADE NOT THE DEEPER SHADE, THE DELPHINIUM

PURPLE MARTINS IN THE SHADOWS OF TREES I HAVE NEVER SEEN

CAN A WORD BE MAPPED

MONOGRAPH FOR JULIET IN ROSE

THE ROSE BOOKS OF ANATOLY KONENKO

CARNATION, LILY, LILY, ROSE

FOR SNOW THAT FELL ON TULIP TREES

BLUEBIRD

ARVO PART AND HIS DEPARTURES

TEARS OF SLEEPING BIRDS

GOING NORTH

AND NOW THE COMMEDIA DEL ARTE IS LEAVING

MY LOST UNICORN WANDERED FAR

RECENTLY, THIS LETTER TO SHALLOT

AMERICAN CLEARING

VERSES OF AN EARLY SPRING

THE GREEN WANING

THE RISING

LE BELLE E LA BETE

VAN GOGH SEEN SIDEWAYS OR FROM GREAT DISTANCES ABSTRACTED, INFLUENCED BY KABAKOV

Picture Books And All Of That

what were the picture story books for
now I think with their larkspur clinging fences
rose trees row by row
hardly a drop of rain that wouldnt be deflected
by cheerful umbrellas in every crayola shade
bursting open like blossoms on the storybook page
for all the people on the idyllic pavements
this is the world the child thought
this is the bright blue and yellow of it
and I am in it
as long as the story is read
as long as the rose is red
and the peony pink
and lemons in a blue bowl near the sink
and breakfast cereal loops in all the colours
and you will go outside and smell the yellow rose
like the little girl in the picture by the poem
sinking your toes into the mud and singing
oye small sandbox pail and yellow rosebud I can see you are a small sun
and Im in my sun suit and Grandmother will give me
small bits of toffee, vanilla caramels and then I will run and run...
it really was that way more often than not
enough to rival any picture book when we went out
to play in the sprinklers and the scent of newly cut grass
was enough to wake the dead and let them spring up
all merry again, dew sprung home for Christmas, back
and i thank you Lord those days were as they were
full of birdsong and lullabies only little things to cry about
and then be done until its Sally go round the roses again
til Kingdom come or the dusk is blue or
birthdays bloom in pink wrapping
so that I wish this for you now
and for all the children that have ever been
and blow out all the candles or was it the wind
last night streaking the panes with rain
as if the tears of angels had splashed up there
and then they had flown over our roof.
mary angela douglas 20 august 2020

Oh Dark Horse Nebulae

oh Dark Horse nebulae

I'll come riding in on my stick horse with its sequined reins

its mysterious felt eye

its bridle of mother of pearl

or wearing the mint green tiny brooch of Pegasus

just like my sister's we'll both visit Gemini

or just stand under the crystal snowfalls again

predicting the nearness of Christmas

the blue blue icicles on the holly bush

the Christmas star finding our house again.

mary angela douglas 20 august 2020

'

Sometimes I Look Too Hard To Find Things

sometimes I look too hard to find things

while keys leap up like trout from stream

out of an unexpected dream

lost homework spirals through the air

and lands just somewhere on the stair

but I have already packed my bags like Hannibal

and gone on far expeditions to reclaim

the name of the song in wind and flame

the right made wrong from all disdain

the colours of the evening star

just about over the topaz bar of Heaven

and dusk and the shade of it, wisteria.

in my backyard.

mary angela douglas 20 august 2020

mary angela douglas 20 august 2020

Thy Children Cry For Bread And Angels;Cherry Boughs to Bend Down

who are we, blown by the winds

ah lacrimosa, the furtive tear in   your eye

lucky enough to be alive within view of the

green proximity of trees

to have ready made for us a ceiling inlaid with stars

with clouds the colour of tearose, peacock blue,

the glazing golds the skies of mother of pearl arced over us

young or old

their echoing waters music music of fountains

and hidden trumpets language falling into us counterwise

and meteor showers snows

we to whom the Lord God had brought the perfume of all flowers

the county of everything living the moon in shade

who are we.

with our own own orbiting sometimes elliptical

practical, falling into sinkholes or poetic states of mind

learning to read the cliffs of stone and time, and time spelled backwards

the way that canyons make us feel; Christmas tinsel, orange peel

who are we, neither fern or silt nor free of guilt, bits of mica

and yet all, all of these , the mirrors of all we see we are

born but from where to parachute from our mothers  on this thin globe and torn

descended into our luminous lifetimes, subject to anything unforeseen

and nimbus dark realities

clouded over with business concerns the hurts of small children

all we have not earned we have not earned the glint of learning

off in the distance far and silver all we aspire to

paper airplane thrown or flowing

or just in a pear bright moment lucid under the sun

at festival and funeral feeling in the way

wondering wondering how many days left here

the clock of our lives you are turning winding here.

O Lord God. our little kaleidoscopes our myriad fears

oh please. for many more aprils, years

allow us, please, to remain.

mary angela douglas 18 august 2020

Oh Yes It Is Written

to those who are stalwart whom no one sees but God

I have written these words and if you find them like a lost penny

like a star broken in two

part of a blizzard at your window if you have one

a small bird piping like a flute then you may know

Heaven has many messengers

the angels have peacock eyes

your distress is duly noted and not for the files.

for those who are brave despite falling down

despite having no one to reach for them and pull them up

to stand I know it does not seem so to you now

and perhaps never did

every crease in your soul so called malingerer waster of taxpayer money

saint in anguish in anguish in season or out

every knot in your stomach

every miserable look your non colleagues ever gave to you

is written oh yes it is written in the Lamb's book of life

in silver and gold in the rarest inks

where God weeps over it

night and day

and cannot be comforted.

mary angela douglas 16 august 2020

How Festive It Is Not To Be Rich and Famous

you can do anything really. take up painting

dance a jig make up a play in your head

and be the star

and then change roles midstream

you can dream anything

and you dont have to pay taxes on it

feel free to go anywhere

maybe you wont get the best table

or even the best chair

but you'll get to finish your meal

you can wear bunny slippers on oscar night

and wrinkly clothes

be in your bare toes

next week you wont have to cancel the soiree

where you wont be on display

or be on a plane to L.A.

you wont have to have anything ready to say

or dust off any shelf in the house

for maybe a trophy

you can watch all the movies you want

with dill popcorn and never feel bad

you almost got that role. or sigh:

you wish you had.

mary angela douglas 16 august 2020

Leaving the Mysteries Behind

 we'll ring down the curtains sometimes we murmur to ourselves in dreams

and find another place with stars hanging above us like icicles and yet

never falling down, no silver falling down except as light

we'll find flowers too and better roses but how could there be

we sigh turn into clouds we drift away

the early morning light still filters through the blinds and streetlights

and we wake up to what we already know

leaving the mysteries behind

mary angela douglas 16 august 2020

Queen Mab In Her Latter Day Memoirettes

like Mab but dethroned I live

in the lanes of forgetfulness

of larkspur with roses yes? or

in a clattering glittering acorn wind

so suspend your disbelief! I

drink the dew from occasional lilies wouldn't you

if you were this small and far from home

still yet, abiding in the borderlands

in a haze of mists; mistaken for ferns

or wilderness I am not these

just the flicker you may see out the corner of your eye

as you so large ride by. so everlastingly large,

ride by...

mary angela douglas 16 august 2020

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I Thought I Saw The Glens Of Night

(For Carolyn Hooper)

I thought I saw the glens of night

and all former loyalties had melted away

only the blood of Christ became starlight

and shone over fitful Caledonia

but oh the scene shifted

and the angels took flight

where are the glens I cried

in more than song

and what was all this for

if Scotland forgets her King.

ranged on no altar now

I see again those who bled and died

who pledged their honor and lost everything

I thought I saw the glens of night

and all was quiet where once there were scars

what was won in enduring love

can never be destroyed

I heard the noise of waters then

the many waters gathered of the saints

who said this is true in the glens of night

and when the mists are rising after all.

mary angela douglas 16 august 2020

Small Things Hide

small things hide in You;the things that are not revered

though they were created some of them at least

on the First Day.

creeping things get in the way even of the ferns.

but I discern on any random summer evening

snail tracks on the moon all made of silver.

wings of a fine rust.

on earth they must they take shelter how they can under a broadleaf in a rain puddle.

and have wistful dreams of one day living in another phyla,

kingdom where the kind and storybook princess arrives

in her nutshell carriage striped gold

and gives them favour.

I weep for small things

in their desertions. for how they get swept down drain pipes

tin soldiers on their way with a tiny kind of valour

that flickers like the flame of a lost thing too all suddenly firefly

floating fleeting in a foreign neighborhood with no echo home

when I am lost in the woods myself so far

far from the stone cutter's cottage.

mary angela douglas `15 august 2020

To You, In The Clearing

so we are tested in dreams in waking dreams

in the way the heroes the heroines were tested

in  the old fairy tales the long form versions

when someone wise comes to us in dreams

in the hidden corners of the forests and whispers to us

sadly not knowing if we will understand or pay any heed

at all to the dream warning: trust not  in appearances

trust to something not yet revealed

and then the music fades;the last peal chimes;

the scent of which rose becomes past memory.

yet it was that particular rose and not the other 

you were instructed to pluck

as if you would pluck upon strings the one elusive phrase

that would open forever the Pearl of the skies.

or how the fir trees looked in starlight and snows

to you: in the clearing.

mary angela douglas 15 august 2020

Or Lean Against A Wall

 without God we would have perished so many times before this;

each time finally

no longer at the turning point masquerading as the proverbial

death blow

looking back we see without question someone brought us back to

life when we were utterly alone from the world's limited perspective

times without number without the encumbrances

of witnessing crowds the asked for PROOF.

required by dubious friends and interrogators

the ones who gather evidence for the saints

in case a life lived for Divine love is not enough

of a basis for beatitude.

in any case it is true that

once more we stand again upon green grass

only knowing in ourselves the impossibility of it

the ever renewed and renewing blue of the skies above us.

can we reason by logic then there is no God.

if that is true then

who held us as we lay dying

every single time.and as we suddenly awoke.

who gave us wings

when we were too weary to put one foot down

on the pavement

or lean against a wall.

mary angela douglas 15 august 2020

1Mary Angela Douglas