The breeze is welcome tonight,
blows gently from the southern tip
of the island.

The kitchen curtains
light and sheer, lift and fall,
lull and frail, alight and float
from this fire-escape.

A scouring sound, the street-cleaner’s truck
big brushes, soft cymbals, a slow waltz but jazz.

Someone sings the body fluorescent,
a silhouette there! hops between rooftops,
the lookout for errant low-flying dreams
flushes the pigeons from their coops
who turn to spirals of doves.

I am as young as this moment allows
but no less. I’ll have been here again.

And morning light blinds bright silver.

Chagall 2015

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