I watch carefully as form inverts
along the optic nerve to become
a weight of the heart, life between pages,
a boutonniere for the mind
Chagall 2019
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I can be your pruner baby,
come display the roses
Chagall 2019
Consider that I cherish you all,
this love of many colors
Chagall 2019
Tonight the statues come alive – we dance!
Flesh on alabaster
Chagall 2019
In my dream I finally turn lucid and
realize I just don’t care about flying
Chagall 2019
I release a bee, caught between screen and window,
crank open the glass; it takes him a while to finally trust
there is freedom beyond the pane.
Good stories and times at the hive tonight.
Chagall 2019
In summer she’d sing through the window fan
to embellish her own vibrato
Chagall 2019
At night, with my eyes inured to the dark, I flash the lights on.
Photons converge to blind me, parade to illuminate my optic nerve,
a flare – I am a film negative, colors inverted until I adapt and am
once again rightly defined,
trillions of sucking pulsating vortices,
the pointillism of the actual corrects itself;
in the time it takes, in that gap, I am postured, the interim, neither.
Chagall 2019
In the reruns
the Towers still stand
each and every
episode
Chagall 2019
I blow on the body of the tiny moth
attached to my screen, watch its body
turn to talc; the night breeze ripples
and lifts the remains away. In my mind
is a soft gray stain.
Chagall 2019
