A shooting star
twilit celestial filaments
across my lashes no longer than half-an-inch

yet up there the fantail of light
is twice many billion miles
nearer than your lips and heart
to mine.

We caress at time’s edge
under corona, or maybe it’s umbra
but who’s to say?

Steady pulse
of shade to light
shadow to crown and
you to rain.

We are leaves invert
we are tips of roots
we are that from which all is derived
we are constellations.

We have begat
the universe

that which is
out there
is small.

Chagall 2015

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