The light is soft here as if all the world is heather
askance, atilt and askew. I stare at a door ajar
that invites me to slip in now and then, and I do.
I float on a tone, bulbous sound beats against time
measured in gulps, a three-quarter waltz paced regularly
when I least expect it to. I wish you eternal lavender.
Life offers life on the gentlest of palms below the wrists’
hollows so slender and kissable. Cheeks intended for cupping
dimple and provoke the protrusion of lips for tugging, to daub,
pull and pout. The colors around me begin to lose their soft-edge,
sadly. I hear the click of the door lock, not certain which side I am on.
On the down beat I gracefully swoop with torque and suspension,
sinew and skin and blood, at work in miraculous union.

© Chagall 2017

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