The world is tilted just so
we receive enough sun for laughter,
sufficient rain to promote bows,
legendary pots of gold, the hypnotic
lure, a kiss; bridges sigh
heavy from the rush of tides
downstream, the race for
calm eddies, shallow pools,
languid warm waters to bathe,
oxygen bubbles to breathe,
a world of no bother, between lips
in the interim – the gap separating
life, persistent, poised,
at the transom looking down
and in.

Chagall 2018

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