for Emilia Kabakova
I think of a pale enameled sky
with half dreams queuing up to fly
and thoughts like white lead nights
in a semi icarian mode take flight yet
flutter here where he has lately disappeared
the angel that we both comprised has fissured
immeasurably in raspberry tints in azure hues
one wing is crying on the ground
the other wing bent into the clouds
a dislocation murmuring
I try to sing ..
high above Long Island Sound
with half wings each
the sundered angel, we
how can we ever now complete
the installation crystalline
how can the half angel sweep with one wing
the windmill angel winter brings
when weeping thus upon the ground
or iridesce the lost and found
while the other half is Heaven bound;
becomes the last and quizzical installation
of her swaying grief.
the golden tree is split
and leaf from leaf
there is no fixing it
the canvas snows
can't be consoled.
and life has tolled
an endless bell
dizzying itself with silences.
with unfinished radiance.
mary angela douglas 1 july 2023
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