amid the ruckus
smiles, upturned faces
facsimiles of uteri
where do all the birthed worlds go
no time right now to elide that question
never to have or to not have been
but where

in a planar sense
a planet any plainer would be
poetry incarnate here upon
Gaia falling – an eternal
blue aqueous orb plummets
down one supposes but here
worlds do fall up

and fill up and fuck up
and fold up like small affairs
at the roadside

Grace is cold air
to invigorate being to awaken
to arise to a vantage above the mist
where clarity is the space within which
each is defined, small dimples
impressed like proofed-dough

small pulses aware in time
we unravel
at band shells
Fridays and Saturdays

in the wake
of the incessant monotony of
cacophony and polyrhythm, steadies
the hum of you, the haunting end of a tune that fades
within; without time there is no lilt
no melody, no quaver, no interval –
no insurrection of sound
to enable heartbreak

I dance stepping and skipping
to big bulbous beats in the fandango moonlight
with my frosty heather love in arm

Chagall 2018