your poem they have set like a lamentation before the glass
on which rain streaks and no silver pattern finds
the chill of the glass is overfine they reflect and turn away
your poem they have set on a desolate mountaintop in a storm
without a shawl to keep it warm under the nebula under the mists and the winds
your poem they pretend they can't get to just yet
while the dust collects on your waning soul they
suck the marrow of its honey out
and cultivate it as their own.
mary angela douglas 12 may7 2021
as if they were cannibals.
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