ALICE IN A DREAM OF WHAT WAS MELTING, EVEN THEN

 

in dreams we are never sure of the place: 

it could be this or another one.

geography dissolves.

and then reappears.

there is a melting of rooms.

and years.

then, do they bloom again? 

she asked herself on a sunny afternoon

on the very same river but

under a farther sun.

and the clouds float on

the surface of the bowl

with the paper flowers, expanding

though not in the puddles;

you're on your own

and the mind is muddled

the Queens dethroned

and do we drift in dreams, do we? 

birthday candles in a pinafore pocket...

(just in case you know, they bring a cake-

and with glazed cherries...) 

though it glints like yellow diamonds

the sun on the river. the heart asleep, 

what difference can it make

with nothing to confess

you're still out of view in a

thin sleeved dress: 

and still oh still just half awake

though present at the pink occasion

when they tick you off the roll

and late again, for the mood you're in

and rowing home.

mary angela douglas 2 february 2015; 3 february 2015;7 june 2022