On the roof
the city below
is quiet

Gray
the order of
the day

People still use clotheslines here
cursive swoops of nylon rope
wet haberdashery semaphore

Empty rivers on either side
the low-end of tugboat blasts
is lost here

Each one grabs
an arm
a leg
apiece

Spreads me like a kite
brings me to the edge
begins a count of three

A sail on the river begs a breeze
no longer grasps hold
kites below become smaller

. . . I be gone

It is certainly quieter here
save for the rush of wind

Chagall 2016

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