Comatose except perhaps in trances
I’m obliged to amble – a somnambulist I am
the wisp’s own will, a fleeting glimpse

As a flitter upon a cheek’s a lash
the softest breeze that wind can muster
flutters by

I’m lost in your shallow breathing
in a warm cocoon spun of chestnut tendril
sweet oily aromatique

It takes but a moment to finally cease
I wait just a beat, then you’ll know

Chagall 2015

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