(for Mikhail Bulgakov)
pavlovian bells swing out over Moscow
how good to drink apricot juice in a tomb
resuming work on an ill starred manuscript
blind as the shadows
in the darkness at noon
I am tired, wept the princess
of living onstage
of lemon forsythia endless bouquets
I know that it's Jesus, not Pilate, who saves
except that the soul gets a little raw
pretending deep winter is just a Spring thaw.
mary angela douglas 27 december 2021
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