Bi-plane pulls a banner
across graying skies, says
All you can dream!

The moment is
an aberration in Ordinary Time,
extraordinarily so, unlike all that’s come or will.

I am mass, resonance, shape and design
breathed through glass, spun backwards.

Figure is ground, the toucher touched,
trapped in surface tension.

I see through the mist at first so pervasive,
inevitable as time and space, life, death, love and rebirth.

I waltz with myself in a salty room,
broom-swept but no worse for wear,
still smelling of summer, I samba
on sand from beaches I conquered, on
bleached plank floors carefully about broken glass.

I mist the room of petals
to keep them opened wide
alert to the sound of oceans;
dance-darkly waves, froth-sexy
whitecaps warm in bare moonlight
rush about ankles.

It’s the last day, the pieces away,
the board packed up, damp paperback pages
adrift on shores, stuck like wonton wrappers

Barefoot girls
dance ska, dark rums and tabla
keep beat that only seers feel.

On this day of reclamation, nocturnes
for atonement pipe through vents
that rim the sky.

Murmurs I can’t distinguish
clearly, the words incanted,
more than prayers,

I think perhaps formulae.

Chagall 2013-2018