Assorted somnambulists are dropping by
to wish me pleasant dreams.
© Chagall 2015
Archive for April, 2015
She said she liked to trace her heart
against sparser white tufts, her etched lines
of cursive flues, hollowed deep and grooved
tight tucks over moguls, small drops to earth
each time gravity curves she bends molten streams
over time embossed so apropos of moments come, but not
whether she’s gone – she’s no time for that.
© Chagall 2015
You’re either
at the outskirts,
really not important, or
you’re the there is
at the center. Pick one
or both but not
neither. You can’t
have neither.
© Chagall 2015
Why, can’t you hear it?
I’m pulsing with the music.
Why can’t you? Hear it.
© Chagall 2015
She’s on a stage with the world on her arm,
a tiny warm whisper in spring, always so far away,
high in the pine on the outskirts of mind where night falls
merely once a day I would find her atop low points,
arms outstretched perhaps breaking her fall – I’d never break her fall,
I’d never ask why only. It’s an effect she had on others,
this effect she had on me, precise – so fluently bewitched,
maybe a little bit bothered by the largesse of charms
I’d heard her recite at least one time, had felt so blessed,
so suddenly whole, too alive to hope to survive anything but liftoff,
everything riding on time, yet so irretrievably late.
© Chagall 2015
I slept too late that morning,
awoke to find you, your coat on,
head down, hand on the door, though we’d said goodbye
the night before I still wanted
to see you one last time.
© Chagall 2015
So far from the endless fields
of lavender once called home.
© Chagall 2015
My friends who are scarred
are indeed my distinguished colleagues.
© Chagall 2015
My how her perfume has lingered this long,
rises from random odd places, mere puffs
of her scent still warm, till fanned
by disruptive cool air.
© Chagall 2015
My numbers are all messed up.
You’ve denied me twelve times,
monthly really and three times I’ve risen,
leavened, refreshed. I’ve but seven left.
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 