The night fills with different patterns,
strange constellations – certainly not mine.
Whose sky is this?
Breezes, sharp zephyrs in trees
and sprites on-hand blow hardest,
then fade, then die.
Too many times,
but once is too many
maybe.
And lights
go out.
In the firmament
and across the way,
chariots where once there were cradles.
Such a strange sky.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 