A tear drops faster lash to cheek than cheek to floor,
such is the pull of gravity.

The salty stain of the run dries cool.

An inverted gulp spelling sorrow rises, diffuse
at its tattered edge, invoking memory to feed.

Eyes shut, with head under covers,
the black swan dives to an ebon pool;

I release all tension and fall.

From lash
to cheek.

Chagall 2017

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