Today I planted four new trees, my goal is
to outlive each of them.
© Chagall ∞
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The kids outside are playing their version of fear factor,
lying down in lavender amid dozens of lazily fuzzy bees.
© Chagall ∞
Lavender amulets tattooed on her legs, release their scent, tender zeal,
a vernal pool. Approach me my melancholy rockabye baby, cuddle up,
never turn blue.
© Chagall ∞
The little blue light of the vacuum continued to pulse;
my referring to it as the umbrella at first had set us off on the wrong foot.
And she – basil – with the emphasis on the second syllable.
no frying z, just a clean s, like in seal. Who does that?
© Chagall ∞
My best friend borrowed a guitar, I told her to return it
with a full tank of gas. She just shrugged and said Huh?
© Chagall ∞
No word is as lavender, in scent or color, is in life,
as a film is longer than a poem or a sigh is,
pointillists revel in innuendo, a pout once hidden
behind a shoulder, turns as time turns, twice bitten,
nipped on by lips and a tongue most tender in touch as in life
as a year is longer when newer as younger was a smile
awash in sun that clouds had hidden
away behind serious-nimble strata
upon cheeks
rained down like kisses, a softer sense, what’s ahead within
dappled then mottled, the shadows of waving leaves, offstage: the sun,
adept, persistent, a beacon perhaps, a sentry, a guard on the nod,
a star
There is no creation more possible than this one
she flies laughing-deflating, a wisp of her vanishing self,
a balloon losing air, she is ground around figure once was,
and no one is she, in blood nor marrow, as in life
as a day is longer than a poem or a sigh was.
© Chagall ∞
The text describes interception and subsequent sublimation,
not of people, but conifers of rainwater
where little precipitation
ever hits the ground.
© Chagall ∞
Lost high atop clouds
Below rich colored soils
Rock, sand, silt, and clay
Angular, blocky
Mother’s rich in organics
Endless horizons
Infiltrate the ground
Seep red from leaching iron
More dense than porous
Root to me firmly
Here in the space of no air
Within the solid
© Chagall ∞
Took naught but a moment to realize
twas soap and not saline
© Chagall ∞
How subtle are these symbols, to clinch or to clench,
both embrace, one the certainty of winning, the other
holds tight to imminent loss, to quench, bring cooling
liquid, healing balm, through tight canals to affliction,
immersion in ice, or steam, infinite horizons of water,
too quiet, to hush someone lovingly with finger upon lips
shushing air.
© Chagall ∞
