Where There Are No Names

lately in my dreams

I find myself missing something

what could it be, a blue moon rummaged,

a lost charm off a bracelet

a tiny hinged piano

or the colour green pale frosted in April

when the mists rise and I think of the Holy Ghost

the fragrance of mown grass.

is it from the past will God merely smile

when I ask, across the wide and the violet waters

is it a ghost ship sailing

and is anyone aboard

try as I may I cant find the shore

I think oh how can I afford this looking at my watch

is it a swatch of rose coloured fabric

can I match it to old china

how can you find the way out of the mine

where it cant be mined it is or was so once upon

sometimes with an arched loveliness like a swan

it floats on transient,just at dawn upon a lake

oh how oh how can I awake

and other times its  dappled and it wants to be orchards

white orchards as far as the eye can see

and so that you cannot tell is it winter is it Spring

is it petals or snow

I dont know I dont know

it's whatever I dream and no train is bound there

though I search every car is it a star that failed to bloom

the light that fell in my old room

oh I haven't got the claim ticket anymore;

I've searched all pockets and its ever the same

the pause in the music where there are no names.

mary angela douglas 31 october 2020

Never Do This

can you sell your sorrow and win the grand prize

oh you must try otherwise you wont be a poet in their eyes

so get the meat grinder out and grind up your soul

your heart maybe even your liver

and you will deliver just what the mags are looking for

and oh by then you'll be adored.

what there is left of you.

mary angela douglas 31 october 2020

Red Queen Redux

painting the white roses red had become an obsession

by  the time Alice crossed paths with her again

not a single a single creamy bud left in the kingdom

even the moon rust red.

though time is a blur in dreams this time Alice was through

with straightening her seams or being told to

when she already knew they were alright.

let it be night then. let the moon chide the clouds.

Alice will say no name out loud to perjure herself here

she will just disappear in the same blue gown a little altered

with a collar of pearls

thankful, on the riverbank again to have escaped all trials.

in that bent , the carnival mirrored world,

mary angela douglas 30 october 2020

The Ghost Of Language Gone

 better to speak no word at all however embroidered

than to let one snowdrop teardrop diamond fall

in an envious room

better to be sealed entombed;

let silence flower endlessly instead

and those who lie in wait to 

stomp to death one earnest phrase

find nothing there to grasp;

the ghost of language gone;

all utterance ceased

then to prolong 

the candle wick extinguished

by those despising light.

rage on;

you will find nothing there.

only the wounded, the incriminating air.

mary angela douglas 30 october 2020

THE GHOST OF LANGUAGE GONE

 better to speak no word at all howev3er embroidered

than to let one snowdrop teardrop diamond fall

in an envious room

better to be sealed entombed

let silence flower endlessly instead

and those who lie in wait to 

stomp to death one earnest phrase

find nothing there to grasp;

the ghost of language gonel

all utterance ceased

then to prolong 

the candle wick extinguished.

by those despising light.

rage on;

you will find nothing there.

only the wounded, the iincriminating air.

mary angela douglas 30 october 2020

Apprenticeship

let me fold into a silver paper

and deliver it to the sky

all the reasons I can tell

for any reason why

lift the latch on a golden locket

gaze at the picture there within

try to remember how you started

off into the october wind

let the curtain draw itself

leave the book upon the shelf

ask the question while you live

pour the honey through a sieve

cast the riddles underground

learn of music

more than sound.

mary angela douglas 29 october 2020

I Thought To Turn The Silver Tide

i thought to turn the silver tide

of all the tears that drained mens' lives

but found that I could barely rise

above my own

I hoped to clear the crystal slate

of all the sludge of warring hate

but it was obvious to me

that I could hardly even breathe

the envious air.

such was the world i found outside

of Edens gates o could I hide

from all the scorpion suns that rose

God knows I would; God knows

then on the bitter seas I saw

Christ walking over every squall

and all I hoped to do or say

I found in him I found in him

that very day.

mary angela douglas 27 october 2020

At Times My Dreams Are Like Silent Movies

 at times my dreams are like silent movies

I think the words I cannot say

for instance, cloud

and a cloud appears with a lemon streak in it

on a lavender horizon

or I think train 

and it's already speeding in the other direction

away from me

what can I say anyway

in dream language to myself

I dont already know when I am waking

and the light filters through the blinds

and stray gleams tell me quietly

the snow is on the ground

the stars have fallen to earth.

mary angela douglas 26 october 2020

/

The Slightest Thing On Hand

small as the fairy is, she bides her time

thuough Time seems a thing most vast

collecting rainwater in a thimble

to make provisions last

feasting on one wild raspberry the winter through.

and though her house is barely thatched

she will make do

with a coats and clark thread of sapphire blue

stitching the porches down

so what if you cant hear a sound

she plays the flute in any weather

and the sparrows understand

small music, muses matter

the slightest thing on hand.

mary angela douglas 26 october 2020

If We Are Aggrieved It May Be

IF WE ARE AGGRIEVED IT MAY BE

if we are aggrieved it may be

that we plant rose gardens where only the dust blooms

even so there remains the rose of the mind

and in the mind, the breeze that cools, lime flower soft

and in the mind the green land eternal hovering aloft

where it is always sunrise

Eden is there. even under a winter sun concealed

where we gather shadows and are paid poorly for it.

the source of things dries up. the leaves are desultory

drifting in the wind thin as brown paper and nothing to wrap

in it so go the days. and everything once loved, away.

fluttering. over the abyss of Song.

but in the mind. in the mind and in the poem lit like a candle

through the night

Your Presence Lord is a thousand gardens blooming and prolonged;

my heart, plighted again

the scent of citrus. the jasmine wind

everything we missed when

we were far from home

dreamed of again

and setting sail

and the looking glass gleam

of all the bright past,

redeemed all our sodden griefs

from out their jails;

and You prevail.

mary angela douglas 25 october 2020

The Children Make Minor Adjustments

the children make minor adjustments

soothing the dolls when they feel frightened themselves

singing small songs to keep the fears at bay

learning what not and finally, what to say;

dreaming of snow.

the children don't know what they don't know

that on the fairy tale path the bread crumbs

will be swallowed whole

by the same small birds that sang to them at home

but they go on alone yet not alone

making their small adjustments as the days tick by

farther and father from the green trees side

oh to the soul that has long been in the city pent

my mother quoted Keats to me in one last lament

or some bright amethyst approximation

knowing I would remember

when she had gone 

the nightingale, yes, and the nightingale's song.

mary angela douglas 24 october 2020

To A Writer Departed

fpr C.S. Lewis

the beautiful chapter goes on

the one you left unfinished

and the ink barely dried on the page

the one you were striving uphill to say

and with each last breath in a craven wind

we cannot and will not read on earth

because you left in the middle of it

did the pages long to fly out the window the door

to follow you there where no man can reach

or child, wishing on a star

the beautiful chapter goes on somewhere else now

where we cant read it not even in a darkened glass

someday when this is past

and we will have learned new alphabets post time and space

we will look it up and never lose our place in the manuscript

again:in

the finished chapter on Grace.

mary angela douglas 23 october 2020

P.S.This poem was inspired by the phrase "the beautiful chapter goes on' I heard this afternoon

listening to Christian radio, BBNradio.com

Fare Thee Well: To My Grandfather, Milton B. Young

my memory's screen door opens to the stars;

there's my Grandfather in the yard

gazing up at the constellations

'That's Telstas, going over us still,'

he whispers softly

his face in the moonlight lined;

no Hamlet's ghost is he

though he whistled when he was worried.

He's not worried now

tending the ghosts of the marigolds

and I am light years from then

though I wish it weren't so.

I wish I could go and turn in my silver flats

in my 12 year old party dress of blue taffeta

and sing him the alphabet or a thousand other things

made of mystery and the beautiful, the blue back speller

but I'm too old for that now or else

he's too young.

younger than I am now

but sitll in the pea green jacket with the fedora

trousers from the 1940s.

tall as any tree

still in love with the Space program

the baseball scores of the Arkansas Travelers.

and shining my shoes for school,

the penny loafers later on, in this nostalgic dream: to a

farethewell,

bright as copper stars.

mary angela douglas 21 october 2020

Ghost Train

are we the ghosts of You, the vestiges

that we should flit so dimly lit between worlds

and uneasy;sad puzzle piece! where will we fit

unless we find the puzzle scattered as we are

lost between sod and star

how shall we homeward be

unless we take the train marked Christ

remembering Thee

even if the long journey through we only

stare at the rain soaked fields but then we weep

when coming into view we see we see

intensely green, the  welcoming trees of Eden

mary angela douglas `18 october 2020

Silver Sheep

silver sheep jump over the stile

and I am soaked in moonlight

for a little while this is a dream

and a radio telescope one

or so it will seem to me

back in the sun

counting the taffeta shadows on the grass

ah if only then it were the past

and the corsage moon pinned to the embroidered dark

and I in love with a silver tune

or is it a ruby lark

I cant get out of my heart

writing a pastorale instead

mary angela douglas 18 october 2020.

Sometimes The Snow

 sometimes the snow falling so softly seemed to me

from my childhood room feathers from Heaven

silent prayers the tears of angels crystalized falling

past lamplight coating the eaves the leaves coating the

ground soft blanketing of the stars like whispers from afar

from you oh Father from you the snows drifting and drifting

the sudden upswing of the wind the snowflakes pressed against the panes

in small and holiday sparkling greeting me, greeting ME

as if they came to whisper peace, little one, and Grace to thee

all is peace under the sun the winter sun the silver on the roof

the holly bush icicicled sleep my child in the downiness of it;

do not awake in sorrow.

mary angela douglas 17 october 2020

mary angela douglas 17 october 2020

Nova Novena

someday may it be when we are thrown back on ourselves

left to our own lack of devices

taking depth measurements of the encroaching darkness

that suddenly a nova will shine out from all the other stars

bursting like a crown jewel and be our particular star in its passing

and brilliance

our opening into the realm of light and a voice will say

to us that we cannot translate into words due to its overwhelming

tenderness:

your prayers are heard

your pryers are heard.

mary angela douglas 17 october 2020

The Crybaby Doll Goes To Town: It's One Scary Story For Sure

I dreamed her in a pale pink dress with one starched petticoat

and a matching dollbaby purse and she has pursed lips too

and is seen from passing cars a teeny phenomenon on the avenue

determined as  all get out

inching her way along the pavement and across the old bridge

over the green river and if that isnt the spookiest thing you ever made

up my sister said, I don't know WHAT is

she's walking if you could call it that on bendable legs

and she has rooted hair that never blows in the wind

the crybaby doll what can't she pretend she played with us

too long not to know all the games and there she is in the rain

with a pink parasol

dogs cross the road when she appears

cats skedaddle

farmers take their loads from town and say to the kids

we'll come back next saturday mebbe closer to Christmas

because their horses rear

at the ghostly cry baby

all set to rob the candy store.

the toy store and to get herself

(small as she is)

 one tall orangeade.

mary angela douglas 17 october 2020

Ah, But The Gold

take the cage with the plain bird the fairy said

and not the one of gold in the jeweled cage

oh yes said the soldier clicking his heels 

as the fairy tale road begins to  unreel and I am winding the clock

with no face that time cannot erase

but in the critical moment he says ah, but the gold

and the cave is blocked where he will grow old

and the way that opened until then

is buried in rubble and until then I wish my warning

and I warn my wish that all the children may

remember this

its important to listen to what is said

to be in the fairy tale quite well read..

mary angela douglas 17 october 2020

We Leave At Your Door Oh Most High

 we leave at your door oh Most High

the conversations we could never have

with anyone else because they fled

we leave at your door instead

this code of tears

of the locust ridden years

we leave

and we leave again

the places where we have been

where only you could find for us the exit

from dubious and deceitful men

illuminated in a sudden ladder of moonlight

rejoice oh my soul for you were found whole

in the perfume of lilies, of many roses though

we had been led we had been led

where our footprints bled through a wilderness of mirrors

scattered and broken;

wild pretense!

and to the edge of being nameless,

but you said we could never be ashamed

though we were singed though acid curled

the edges of the last pictures taken;

the evidence, yellowed with age.

I hear the recording, departing angels cry:

you did not, You do not lie.

nor your beleaguered children.

mary angela douglas 16 october 2020

We Remember You

oh Lord do come to our defense

when the pettiness of this world and small cruelties threaten to engulf us;

when we are left high and dry.

when it seems there will be no more springtime on earth.

when it feels there will be no sky

and that the glacial ages will return.

oh Lord come to our defense when we are spurned,

when we are shunned.

whenever it is we deeply feel our orphaned state

and perennial exile while on You we wait

and can no longer measure the distance between 

where we are seated and the door

or ascertain if there are prowlers wild coyotes

near

be with us when we quake with fear

because of the barbs and arrows that have flown our way

on many a blue skied sunny day

without us ever knowing why

for the sickness that comes to stay. be our balm.

for the killing storm, our calm.

we know you made the earth to be beautiful.

we remember Zion.

we remember the sound of the harps.

we remember You.

Oh see that we have strung our captivities together

to make  a Song, a necklace of bitter stars

that you may know we know

it was never You who wronged us;

let the small tears come

and wash it all away.

mary angela douglas 16 october 2020

No Appointment Necessary

Genisis 1:16...he made the stars also.

I think it's so great you don't have to call God's secretary

to make an appointment or see if he can fit you in.

You dont have to go downtown to his huge office

and wait uncomfortably by the magazines and the hundred thousand others

waiting their turn dressed a whole lot better than you are

to finally hear the receptionist say without even making eye contact:

The One Who Made The Stars Also Will See You Now.

and then you dont have to go in there to his office I mean

and there he is still on the phone with someone really gold plated important

can you imagine?

you don't have to feel nervous when he gets off the line finally

and keeps looking at his incredible humongo wristwatch with the moon and stars also

emblazoned on it in blinding mother of pearl

while you are talking trying to get through to him

and you dont have to shift uncomfortably in your chair.

Nobody makes you curtsey to him or wear long gloves.

you dont even have to wait until he finishes dinner to get up from the table.

so when people try to make you feel small the last one to be

on a need to know basis basis

the most non essential employee ever in everland

just think:

I can talk to the King of Heaven

right now silently invisibly even while you're smirking at me

or holding your nose

and the RECORDING ANGEL IS WRITING IT ALL DOWN,

mary angela douglas `15 October 2020

How Is It You Have Lined All Things With Light

how is it You have lined everything with light Lord God

so that no matter what  befalls us there is still a way home

as if you foresaw every impossible known emergency happening to us

providing the needle and thread, the silver thimble too.

and every war long in advance of its breaking out

all upheavals you have rendered useless by your Glory

by your hidden streams. your indirection.

so that even in our weeping

a provisionary sorrow gleams and

there is something glistening

so that even in your shadow, even if we should vanish from the earth

there is a plum darkness

where a lone bird sings.

mary angela douglas 15 october 2020

After A Funeral I Never Went To

the day after the funeral I knew I would never go back

it's not the kind of funeral you can imagine like that

just there are certain instants in life where you know

something you thought was living cant be there anymore.

and you're not the one to bury it

not even to take it flowers.

to make sure the grass is trimmed around it.

at visiting hours.

only a puppet animation.

simulation simulation.

in your mind you think all I have to do 

whenever the heartsickness is through

to feel ok again is just to rewind the tape and review

to go back to the days before

but when you go back

the cherabim who guarded Eden

meet you at the door.

you're not in charge of it anymore.

the ground under your feet even the sky has died there.

a nothing you could improve upon

not even an address anymore.

and then it was gone.

the shift in the air your queasiness.

it wasnt autumn anymore 

and not yet the lightest snow

it just wasnt anywhere

anyone human was likely to go. 

and the light altered everything.

mary angela douglas 14 october 2020 

Code

they comfort themselves with silver flecks from the moon

starlight in patches on the evening grass

the wind in the eaves sings this will not last

this will not last

they comfort themselves with the taffy pulling sun

that stretches their shadows until supper comes

the wind in the eaves sings this will not last

soon all summers will be past

they comfort themselves with waves that reach the shore

and buckets of sand and violets galore and with desserts

when they can ask for more

the wind in the eaves and in the strawberry patch

says children children lift the latch

to journey farther than they thought they would

far from the enchanted neighborhood

children children this will not last

the wind sings in autumn and in the winter blast

and later looking down a whitened road

they understand the winds sad code.

mary angela douglas 14 october 2020

All Summer In A Day

a reflection on the short story of the same title by Ray Bradbury

I stood where the sun was like an orange.

I remembered oranges. Eating the sun.

the scent of orange blossoms.

how many days on this planet soaked with rain.

our faces greyed in the mirrors of the stars.

I remember the sun. the orange in the corner of the picture

I drew for my mother.

I remember you. I remember how it felt to be locked in the closet

when the sun came pouring through

I could feel it receding I could hear the butterscotched singing

and I wept.

this is a thing I cannot forget.

mary angela douglas 14 october 2020

They Always Shoot The Wendy Bird

for J.M. Barrie

they always shoot the Wendy Bird when they get to that

part in the play

the lost boys in the never land of my recurrent days.

I wish I could write it another way

I wish that I could straighten the seams

but the scene plays out.

in every dream.or matinee.

maybe it's just that they're too tired

or that they had too much to eat

overfilled on sweets and stories with elaborate endings.

lost in a pirate pretending.

too blind from the glare on the green blue lagoon

sooner or later she will plummet in blue

her pink sash immaculate;fair ribbons streaming

and I will awake locked out of dreaming

murmuring on the lawn

how long how long

can this go on?

they always shoot the Wendy Bird

their eyes full of sudden tears

and then they say

they never meant to.

and this occurs for years.

mary angela douglas 13 october 2020

Red Banner On the Horizon

who can still be in love with the banner on the horizon

with its lipstick slash of red its tedium

I'm not

happy to see it back again.

hoisted aloft by trusting neophytes

whose hearts are they using this time

whose valentine cut outs whose early deaths.

red the colour of a dance dress maybe once

a Christmas color

something of gaiety a holiday declared

the ribbon you wear when you feel happy

a child's crayon.the favored one

not this red. nyet.

there it is again a recurring nightmare.

stupidly portentous in the fog

can't someone go out in the rain

and bury it

so no dog can possibly dig it up again.

mary angela douglas 13 october 2020

Saboteurs

to those who go around blowing up bridges because

maybe they've seen too many war movies

and want to hear the sound of things falling apart

the screech of brakes on the train

well what words can be said.

get a better hobby?

the bridge will hold.

the trestle too.

it was all made of clouds anyway.

clouds disperse.

something that floating can't be wounded.

it must be good to be clouds.

to be the reflections in the water.

we will stand there a moment

counting the water lilies in the painting

melting into their colours as if we were rippling rain.

now I am violet

now I am pale green. the dark iris smudge of ink.

now I am far from the simulated wars

and saboteurs

the golden rattle of peaches

the winesap bruising of apples in unnatural windfall

in the orchards of beauty in extremity

o my soul.

mary angela douglas 13 october 2020

The Third Peril George Washington Saw In A Dream

this is the peril of the sleeping eye

that continues to watch you when you think its not

because you wont observe the semi transparent lid

least of all bow down to it

you imagine you are free

but the machine takes notes on your behavior

passing them out in the street, in the general assemblies

and hums in reverse telling the faculty everything

the machine trains its own

a thousand thousand knowing the part they play

in the coexistence of everything

in the shattering of the individual

the parties for the eclipse of the Sun

are you everyone now

have you made that much progress

have you converted the bushes too

the furniture

you are encamped against the encampment of the Lord

against the angelic worlds and the court of Heaven

we can leaven our bread again

the Lord can tell us where to flee

you aren't as prevelant as you engineer yourself to be

and you wont engineer me

what can I say to you oh calculating universe

you wont make up in time you with your vast armies of new recruits

snow blank as hell

I have been watching you too

I know how you garble the secrets you think you know

and cast aspersions even on the roses.

on everything I ever felt

or knew.

eavesdropping on my silent prayers.

who are you are you there

will you be there a long time

collecting evidence against no crime

whatever you do, do quickly

Jesus said.

you didnt kill him either.

mary angela douglas 13 october 2020

The Picnic At The End Of The World

shade two hills with green chalk

the pink sun setting between them

in a deeper hue

there will be me and you and all the people we used to know

gathering there like in the old hymns

singing the rest beyond the river

fried chicken on a chequered cloth, three kinds of cake

one pink, german chocolate a coconut cake with a single cherry

in the middle

lots of cold drinks soft chatter

potato salad in every variation known

and lemonade the pink and gold

to wash it down.

beulah land sweet beulah land

the chorus will rise

beyond the river we will rise as well

leaving the basket behind.

and the pickle relish.

mary angela douglas ``12 october 2020

Candle

surely you are the candle that cannot be put out Lord God

the vast candle of the sun that lights the earth the only One

the small candle in my soul lit from my beginning

surely You are always winning pushing the darkness back

and on my foggy track the beckoning and the lighthouse

where I dream

I dream of refugz always knowing you are there

in any turmoil, movement toward despair

one shaft of light from star or sun

and I am overcome and hear you say

throughout my day however long and lengthening lengthening into night

Let there be light and light and light

mary angela douglas 11 october 2020 

Will Poetry On Mars Be Ruby Red

for Ray Bradbury

will poetry on Mars be ruby red

I said to myself when you were dead

or rumored to be

tracing your trajectory

with my small hour glass upturned

and filtering pink sands

will poetry on mars be ruby red

and will the things the children will be fed

be only red onions red cabbage too

in every possible form of stew

or beets on the side

after the turn on the merry go round is through

unless we smuggle garnets in

and will pomegranates rule

these things you might have answered here

had you but lingered in the year 

you left it as it is

I cant decide if strawberry fizz

is the exact right color for the moon

when viewed from Mars..

you would answer were you here

in candy bars, or pumpkin fears

as it is, I'll persevere

wishing we'd asked you in the days

before you went so far away.

mary angela douglas 10 october  2020

Yet You Are Still My Moon

yet you are still  my moon the immortal poet whispered

after all those launches from the Cape

the thunder of rockets in the afternoons

and that this dissipates we have found too true

after the circus novelties of all the landings.

still I see you floating in a sea of darkness 

silver in the same way

weaving yourself through clouds so far away

though they have charts now

mapping every crater

and your invisible lakes

still elusively I trace

in fitful Spring 

the changeless enigma of your changing face

and April's pale green wanderings

even more mysteriously there.

and everywhere.

and I wonder how any footprint was laid against

your firefly dust.

still I see you white silver at best or rust in autumns

past counting

courting the blue shadows or in the rose

and rare appearances that you make

incalculably aloof

in bright residue and reserves

shining on my roof, above this earth

and flowing through my open shade

making lilac pools upon the midnight floor.

we hold conversation as before

Muse and musing; gardenia silence above

the milky avenues

and every word is minted new...

because, because of you

in cloud languages and the night bird songs

and me so small with this eternal childlike aching in my heart

that you alone impart

how can I tell them it is still you swimming in the dark

fish beyond catching

lingering strangely in chalk blue daylight like a token

still the out of reach floating above the peach trees

and that they have not found you at all.

mary angela douglas 10 october 2020

Stepping Onto The Terrace Where The Night Flowers Bloom

let us pause this moment in the moonlight

stepping onto the terrace where the night flowers bloom

and in a younger mood, remember how the evening breezes then

seemed a composite music only you could hear.

then the ear was pearl and delicately tuned to the greening world

and you read St. Francis, canticles, the hymns to the Sun.

how far away it seems the lapping at that shore.

a farther distance than could ever be traveled again

even with the old maps laid straight before you.

and the routes marked 'here'.and the exits, 'when'

hold onto it somehow, in the fleeting, the sweet recalled

the mirage of how the stars appeared to you all

flaring and shooting off wistful sparks and clear:

into the deeper, labyrinthine fears where God's still presence

still IS. and the fizz of memory is glad.

we will pick the rose colours from out of the sky

and fold them within and cease from tears.

the heart is lined with them

the heart is lined with them!

even after long years.

mary angela douglas 9 october 2020

The Ghosts Of My Gestures Fade

THE GHOSTS OF MY GESTURES FADE

Sometimes I feel I am peering through a one way mirror

into the faces that I see into certain gestures into time that falls

away as petals from the flower of them as shafts of sunlight from the darkening trees

I can see all these I can feel in each detail the scent of snow or sudden hail spiced mold of leaves the antique rose the parboiled

fairy tale making do for dinner

and yet

there is no echo back not even a tapping on the glass.

the orange studded with cloves I made my Grandmother for Christmas past

only the sense that I am acknowledged long enough for my answers to be copied onto someone else's paper'or marked

"present" as a necessary foil

it baffles me. Looking out;fending within and wondering

is my planet shrinking; fixed in its untwinkling

my orbit negligible now;am I the ghost of my ghost somehow and was I

really ever tangible here in a walk on part later cut from the scene

admiring the rainbow oilspots on the carports;bicycling

or do my footprints disappear in the vast snows in advance

of their accumulation forgoing all that gleaming fine is sugar snow

that cannot blow on earth updrafting into the ozone

and are my words patched through this seeming

beyond all I ever felt or knew crumpling their meteoric trace

straightening their errant crowns at last beyond this place

sucked through an unmarked door perhaps

by angels finishing up their malteds or where dreams cannot lapse

into the dimestore looking glass of the world

nor waves nor gulls at sea nor meaning as I first believed it

bypassing this dimension entirely

weary from invalidations crowding the puzzle years and

seeking only God.

mary angela douglas 8-9 october 2020