for Ilya Kabakov
perhaps you were tired of your museum going self
but you were never the type anyway
just wandering along the pavement
on a Saturday exploring the place
where the paper angels invisibly discerned
clung like starry moths trying to get in
you were one of them
still the child with the red velvet cape
off the beaten path
picking the papier mache flowers
everything was a costume drama back then
you tiptoe in.
someone has been here before me you marvel
there's the invisible porridge left steaming on
old tables
and there are newly erected fables
cubby hole apartments with little
stage dressing, just enough
dream perimeters established
museum perimeters have vanished
am I among the banished
you laugh to yourself, your toes in the brook
you become still
sensing the angels along the baseboards
or barricades
in a twilight sketched out on graph paper
in curious notebooks
in conversations newly arrived from space
in light years retraced
in corridors of snow
all the escape routes open now
nothing to hinder you
no one will ever find you now
or inquire after you
you with your amethyst wishes still brand new
the Ideal patron, the beau geste
who also flew into the pictures
who also believes there is a fine line
drawn
painted with a child's watercolour box
dreamed before planned
planned before dreamed
so that in the mists you finally are
where prayers cannot reach the ceilings
but they have bypassed, surpassed the stars.
the monumental snows.
mary angela douglas 1 july 2023;15 july 2023
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