what endures proves enigmatic
for those who come later
without reconcile
of then till now
a single bead
dew twists
around stem
then drops
to an instance
of water
nurtures then erodes
persistence pays
tiny rubs etch away
level grand to humble
of course one time
we would simply fly
carve graceful twists
in the light outside
air hauntingly cold
what we leave behind lasts
only so long until we return
forgetful and seeking again
Chagall 2018
We created our music separate and apart
behind our own closed doors, instead of
in the common room, where it would have been
fun to have played together.
To duet through to the wee hours, bewitched
by twisting lines of impromptu lyric.
Some other day, maybe.
Chagall 2018
Epiphany comes
less real
Chagall 2018
If everything comes loaded with its context,
can anything any longer then stand on its own?
Chagall 2018
To arpeggiate
Angular ice fills the sky
Awash in snowlight
To arpeggiate
I find odder intervals
Stacks of pleasure tones
Angular ice fills the sky
Brave slashes of white on gray
Life’s odd urgency
Awash in snowlight
Frozen in grace outside time
Floating loftily
Chagall 2018
There is the sound of water that hushes
each and every time I am near enough to listen
Chagall 2018
Red hawk flies in snow
a visual form without sound
save the friction of miniature ice pellets
grating through the air
She recalls the sense of
having been once in echelon
Alights
alone on a frozen branch
to gaze into barren woods
intently
Warm for now
in updraft
Chagall 2018
You, with the strange telephone numbers who keep calling throughout the day
– go away!
Chagall 2018
I wish my mother was alive
so I could confirm with her
a memory I have of a song
my grandfather used to sing
Chagall 2018
I am the samba that remains unwritten
For the space between sand and sea
The dance upon rocks polished
By time made smooth in deep-water indigo
Bluer than wet waves, sails settle thusly at dusk
On horizons under constellations
Ceased to fail to bring grace
The incalculable wonder of eyes
The ponderous pout that poets beget
Forgotten before fadeaway
For the body, for warm city nights
For carousels, the songs they play
For the march of grand horses
Somewhere glasses touch, soft mallets
In search of the warm tone, the sensual rub of globes
I am that samba that snaps you back to the beach
In cool day, in bright coveted morning
A tip of the hat with a wink
Today is elementary sparkle
The samba that returns like the surf does
Though sometimes it stops
It’s true, so samba through
To the space between sand and sea
Samba to where you want to be
Leaning over the rail, a low balcony overlooks surf
A small fox at dusk darts furtively through the rough sandy brush
The backs of houses along the dunes along the beach along the ocean
Darkness settles on salted breezes aromatic with land crabs
Less fearful to exit their holes this time of day right before night
When the number of stars and wan atmosphere rival the majesty, the ocean’s roar
In pitch blackness, the world of the blind
The roar of sound dominates the ear
So goes the body
ere the fall of the mind
I am the waves you hear
Of this there is no denying
I am the song of the samba receding
Chagall 2018
Alphabet City 