Long ago but not long from now
till time passes away, we’ll hold and we’ll sway
in our special step;
where did they find so much tinsel?
Beneath a drizzle of ticker-tape mixed with rain,
I think lips taste, well . . .
very nice.
In our race down mountains, I often feared that you’d fall
and I’d tend to you in clearings, healing poultice and wrappings.
At the base of a timeless place, so sheer in its rise that up becomes down
before we know it, and we’ve lost more than merely a glimpse in the knowing.
Promise that we will always let one another
down softly.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 