waiting for the beautiful ship to come
we stood on sinking continents
our eyes flooded with meteor showers
in a compact room
an artist sat
making books out of dried
rosepetals
children in their sleep
waiting for the beautiful ship to come
might never know
the roseleaves he was turning
at precisely the midnight
of the world
bird shadows over the blue
green
melting poles could understand;
sensing the end of all auroras
they sang only for him
the artist arranging rose pages
binding with flowers the...
with fine mauve stitching that
would not come undone
rose inscriptions
rose inscriptions
rose inscriptions
was all that God could read
mary angela douglas 13 june 2009
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