I brood the nighttime fantastic while
she plays castanets for after all it is her fandango.

Out back there is a circle of trees that funnels
moonlight down to the ground. A place to lull
ancient hymns amid crickets after twi-star.

This is where we twirl, the reason why we dance –
trip the light. Slap palm slaps to palm to keep pace,
so many tambourinists! She is my dervish by constellate light,

I know more than merely her big stars, I’ve combed eons that sketch
her mythology, made fine pencil drawings on empty sky.

Clouds enshroud the light enshrouding the garden, we are on
the shadows reflected there as moonlight on rain, so far
removed, right here.

The softest feather of far away thunder rumbles soothingly in my brain,
a grainy living presence there in my ears and mind.

Chagall 2017

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