I knew her when
she was first

in platinum
as if under black light
she shone

terse, tense
lithe and alive
in a lather of lavender foam

stretched, arced and aching
for a view higher than
her back could bridge

she was rippled, a dance –
fragrant, a tingle, en-pointe

a place where fingertips
might traipse then linger
to dally lightly

she slides to feel
every portion of a body
in motion against another –
to give in to gravity

something about this fabric
in time

I have always conceived her as spun in lights
enrobed in a series of pulses


ever brighter
and then
ever smaller

to recede:
like a constellation
traces who she really is
via stars once decided on
long ago

again, I’m recalling
when she was first

Chagall 2018