Wielding the pen is the poem
is it not?

That we are at all
more ponderous
than why.

Tell me again what I’ll tell you,
I never grow tired of hearing.

You arrive before that which precedes me,
such is my life, these latent neurons.

And love?
Rain, alchemy, inevitable parting,
the last touch of fingertips in a crowd.

The sweet and sour and salt of you –
such a heady bouquet.

Chagall 2015

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