I favor the stories that trail off into the mists
like vague Queens drifting with their velvet trains
and nothing lost and nothing gained discernably
for the Princess sighs: how tiresome to be
always spelling it out for the jugglers who
may die at sunrise
or the picture puzzle that shows only
the small winter birds picking at the glaze on the puddles
as though seeking silver cherries from those boughs
in the pavement mirrors
what we shall call it, the need for mystery
as to How Things Turned Out
if the chords ever resolved;and did the clouds move on?
or what it feels like in dreams to be stranded
waking up suddenly at an outside truck
shifting gears
a dog barking pompously on the lawn
because it cannot fetch the moon
or eat at table with a silver spoon
which one?
who wants a predictable predictable
when everything in us is a search for the vanishing
subtle music, play on
rose of no closing hour.in Time's millennial bower,
bloom. and we will leave you there.
mary angela douglas 19 february 2022
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