chagall backdrop

My pen is filled with streets, not ink,
jagged black marker paves avenues
to arcs of triumph where synapse parade
in goose step lock these blue afternoons.

Perfect heat and only the scents
of flowers and her and sugar dough.

I could burst from so much promise,
eternity of mornings, preamble to days,
long, lustrous days, immersed in time,
absorbed by years; exhaled panting lovers.

Allow me to will you to will me back
to perfect heart and sharpened quill,
from that moment before the edge,
yet ere the step into open space,
where it’s clear save to ponder the last dash.

© Chagall 2014