N.D.E.S And The Immortal Book At Hand Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

(I was) near death, they say
and all their tunnels glowing;
the silver overpasses of the angels...

and now, no longer do they fear death:
a moment's spume washed up on the
deck of eternities; back to their home making

with alacrity; no longer that commited to
washing the car every Saturday.

but I am still here not having made that journey
where a commanding angel commands, go back,
you have something left to do-

trembling over a multitude of old books
discarded from contemporary libraries
having the scent of gold apples procured

from far regions

or childhood's delicious, snowy bindings.
and I want to know I want to live
without categories

or catalogues or testimonies...
deeper and deeper to live
beyond mere life, near life

within these majestical phrases
that have been tossed out like so much rubble
into a modern alley.

or book sale-bake-sale salad
with the proceeds going to the astonishing
other things libraries are known for now.

while language is crowned with ever novel
diminishments, so as to be, also near death.
except that, how can I tell you this, that

God breathes on the vintage pages
as I read.
and He did then, as well

when they were writ-envoys to us their latter friends
so how in this case does death, near death
even enter into it?

mary angela douglas 9 novemer 2015