Apple Orchards Hung with Foil Deflectors

by Ann Douglas


Chain, Orchard

The idea formed,
had formed—prefab

that symmetry like law
like balance

would knit us together.

Geese
met Earth’s curve and
bent. Honking
ripped the air, lifted rivers—
rapids and flew them. Truth presided, the one
thriving on contest

within accord.
Loose azures
heavenly enough

to recruit the McCalmon
peak blue, flash blue.

No one was meant
to be by the glare of the seen, un.

Such was not the intention.
God likes

rooms within chambers, forms
within forms, His
form.

But luck

needs no self, no
God’s warty right hand.

Luck just happens
in the old aristocratic sense,

rising carelessly
from some hidden left hand,
presumptive of a perfect southern exposure.

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