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.

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

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s