Alphabet City

I wink at the blind to catch their eye,
proposition the deaf for an ear, my lips move
to articulate tongues, arcane and garbled
chicanery, while fools wisely ignore the signs
to take heed.

In a tunnel that escapes me
thoughts meander, drifts blown ash
from fires once hot, close enough to burn
now cold, cinders reassemble not so easily these days,
but I try.

On the outside off the inside
under overcast tops ‘neath the shade,
is where I fail to succeed to be
what I’m not. And I find that I’m lost,
but I really don’t care, concernedly.

You are the essential wholeness of nothing,
everything wrapped into one and one,
she to others, just shy of a crowd.

As today marks the end
yesterday clears its promise
and I’m face-flat against the white wall
once again.

© Chagall 2014

She exclaimed
Such a beautiful church
it’s non-dimensional

I asked
You mean non-denominational,
don’t you?

She retorted
No, come look

She swung open the large wooden door.  I walked in.

Oh, I see what you mean.
oh!
o
h
!
m
y
G
o
d
!
.
.
.

Chagall 2015

Last night when I came into the bedroom,
I turned the light on low. You were asleep
with the most wonderful look on your face.

On your back with your hands drawn to your chin,
your shoulders raised in a shrug, eyes tight,
Duchenne smile, you beheld the marvelous,
cheeks red, lips pursed in amazement, as if
you were witnessing the birth of a star.

I watched you, in the presence of angels,
then I closed the light and raised the blanket,
and cautiously slid in there beside you,
so not to startle, jar your reverie.

I found my place in our nighttime hollow,
sunk in the mattress, you shifted and slid
into orbit along my gravity,
snuggling up warm and long against my back.

We are ancient Mayans drawn on the wall,
in the capsule, awaiting reentry.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013