Stories That Trail Off, Into The Mists And Neverending Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

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