Like any muscle,
you work it, it flows
like Ali in Zaire,

Long before rhythm was sound
there was pulse all around,
the red-hot glow of a fresh start,
heart at the bell like flutter-by
everywhere center and everyone here is gone
into the eyes we compel ourselves to peer,
so what if we’d had wanton ways,
troubling how those days still tremble,
the quake more fire than smoke than
torrential rain.

Streaks of landscapes run like tears
bleed colors, mascara runs, wipers keep time
then stop, and all is silent neck-deep in the flood

How hard is it really
to step from the edge, much simpler for sure
to refrain: boom-ba-yay!

© Chagall 2015