chagall backdrop

What can you do for the poet
who fails to get her own writing?

You’d think that she’d know it
cold, be the one
to enlighten.

She writes
so we can’t interpret
cooks to repress
our taste, sings
while no one is
listening, in prayer
she’s alone
with her words.

I intended for this to be just so
it’s really not what you think.

Oh, those? Mere camerae obscurae,
please don’t touch, they’re mine.

In the end somewhere from a weathered couch
she opines on the state of the air
about her congealing in slow waves
that pulsate, fade, and die.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013