Everyday we lose subtleties,
small gestures of grace and faith
now somewhere in the void.

Perhaps not irretrievable:
one would need a hand,
a borrowed shoulder and someone’s heart maybe to cry on.

I pulse, you pulse, the way it’s supposed to happen
over time.

A perch,
unseen bird relaxes
and intuitively expels
the only song in the world.

A branch,
doves couple and breathe
into one another.

So rarefied from atop the canopy,
I yearn to stretch and become the horizon.

God, I am so endeared to the splay of existence,
I shake because I feel too much.

And too much
fades away.

© Chagall 2014

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