Shall we allow this Sunday
to slip by without memorial
just another in the line
or is it something special?
Tonight is a time for sorrow
yet also hope for the new day
I’m so mixed in a bipolar way
flashing hot, cool, on, off
a sob becomes a scream inside
a head filled with sugarplums
upon whose breast I lay my weary cheek
perchance to awake. Allow me
to place a kiss atop your forehead,
to the tip of your nose,
in this perfect dark room we giggle
and glimpse the faeries of the evening
diaphanous will-o’-the-wisps scattered
on warm breeze misted alive they frolic
galloping about our optic nerves

Chagall 2015

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