Love I think has side doors, ways to enter
unannounced, behind the main stage, below
the orchestra pit.  

Oh, but to fly down
to the center spot from the mezzanine
tethered to a taut invisible wire,
a nymph dreaming of a midsummer night.

But then what?  Soliloquy, bow, curtsy?
A pas de deux followed by fond adieu?

I'm through your cellar window, past sorrow,
stumbling over joy in the dark and damp.
Overhead, a string, a pullchain of light,
evades my touch with each stretch to grasp it.


© Carlos Chagall, 2013