When I Am In The Wind Tunnel Of The Poem Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

I can feel when I am
In the wind tunnel of the poem
I am making it out of whatever happens by, stray bits of half finished golden
Straw, and emerald rubble for instance and my
Dreams tumble in my head
As though they were in a giant washing machine
Commercial load yet not commercial
Where every now and then we all become
Something pearled and glint in the wind
And now Im drawn back again mid metaphor to the feeling of velocity
In this landscape
The rush clouds must feel when winds are
At their cloudy backs and their flight is hastened
Less than the flight of birds because they won't be returning home
I mean, not as themselves and most resemble
ghost ships with no rudder floating on an ice green ocean of air
On nothing, subject to becoming rain or snow
Or they find some other way of disappearing
they don't know; it just happens, something glacial skidding on auroras
Where would we go whispers my soul in cloud language
Where are we going now they murmur, the clouds
In faery expectation
All pink and lavender, marigold almost lost
if you asked them for directions, tossed
like salads with raspberry vinaigrette or riddled by light
by the baby princesses pointing them out to their Papas
For Christmas? their plea
Or the Shelleyan clouds piled up in extravagant degree
are pulled by the inevitable tug
they cannot feel in
Themselves the power to resist
The translation of the skies into everything.
mary angela douglas 24 may 2024