If I forget to read
between the lines of the butterfly crumbling lovely pages
in the dust-laden magisterial corners of the Ages
faintly may the violets of future Springs
reprimand; the baby stars leave off
shining in the land of ploughed under kingdoms.
if I refuse the gleaning of the wild apple borders
of the suddenly untold retold intertwined with gold, with silver,
cerise
I will entreat my Soul:
oh do not cease to know
knowing that they are mine to know,
so fervently passed down.
but, if so,
may the string quartets quartered, confined in
the Attic attics repining,
break my heart.
far far is the world from bliss, contemplating
all this banishment and fallen foul
of this, of these faded valentines with the clasped hands
the pale blue ribbons streaming
meaning upon meaning, weeping
the fin de siecle of feeling, Beauty,
sentiment
from the mouths of doves so wreathed
then may the small birds fly away
from the rainbow scuttling rills deceiving
and may no one till from the Ground of being anymore
failing to impart IMMORTALITY
from the secret this so sacred Ark,for
the least of these spent languages,
the currencies of dreams.
mary angela douglas 12 march 2015;29 november 2023
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