In this land
of abandoned contraband
and fecund arabesques,
I am told it is OK
to cease to celebrate
recurring days
of birth

Headlong,
an obligation,
shopworn, tattered,
and forlorn, ahead of time
foresworn, more than four-score
years ago, way before now,
Saturdays first conceived
for salutations, felicitations,
spirits chasing salted kisses
in almost morning, before the break

Receive with broad open heart
this resonant embrace beholding
the coming of days

Captivating tenons
like fascinating rhythms
there all along the curve:
the supple subtle run
of another

Chagall 2018

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