While it’s just an Autumn Friday,
it somehow seems more than that,
preordained a holy day
but by whom, I couldn’t know.

It does feel special –
a canoe carved in time
that I feel I’m obliged,
even intended to lie in,

lay low
to shoot the rapids,
braced in a four-point stance.

I look up, see nothing
but sky in constellation,
water founts arc the lip,
refresh but nearly drown me.

On this day of reclamation,
nocturnes for atonement
pipe through vents
that rim the sky (good bass
– it sounds like vinyl)
push cold air.

And I sense there’s someone out there,
maybe a Being or two,
masterminds, big kahuna,
a capo, a boss,
a God.

Murmuring I can’t distinguish
clearly, the words incanted,
more than prayers, I think
perhaps formulae.

Or maybe it’s just two Angels
out for kicks on a Friday night,
the weekend’s tip
with a divine tap,
a haloed index finger
extended from a perfect hand,
aces over kings.

The evening is timeless,
an aberration in Ordinary Time,
extraordinarily so,
unlike all that’s come or will,
smooth-shaven, coiffed,

I am mass,
shape and design breathed
through glass, spun backwards,
figure is ground, the toucher is
touched, trapped in surface tension.

Small planes fly low
en route to Idlewild;
even here on the ground
I can hear the pilot
implore the crew
to land.

I arrive at this special feeling
by making less of who I am:
I strip way
I float away
I fade away

I bleed through the blot of autumn
that once seemed so pervasive,
inevitable a construct,

like time and space,
life, death,
love and rebirth.

© Chagall, 2013