I project the softest of thoughts into the weathered image,
appropriately round to resemble the heather edge.

I mute my colors – a darkened frame,
the rustic ground on which I lie.

The smell is a cave’s wet mildew, dark cool echoes,
an intensely exciting sense of something about to happen.

To pause now is good – to cease perhaps profound.

I escape what I see, elide its impression so that
it’s seen like a fallen tree having made no sound,
felled and silent, without remnant of trespass.

The day adorns itself with spectacular patches of sunlight
here and there, now and then niched in a place I know,
almost but not quite forgotten.

Away to windows lovers will fly like flashes to see starlight
tonight before clouds roll in.

The day turns to a dark powder, a granular graphite that is
oddly breathable and invigorating.  I inhale deeply.

Chagall 2018

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