I underestimate the magic of a small room,
acoustic fidelity does make you seem real. The actual
time and place doesn’t matter despite the cohabitant tingle.
Unjustly qualified – I apologize, but only
so much, no more.

My uncle made money appear from behind my ear once
when I was a child, and I wanted to be a magician
just like him. Feign of hand for the feint of heart,
a lot like love and less like sailors on leave
ashore somewhere.

The incredible desire to leave is sometimes a prelude
and not necessarily an aftermath, something to keep
in hand on windy decks. It’s hard to believe there are so many leaves
this early this year; these wooden docks and breezy days
are the ones we remember for leaving.

For having been there ere to have left at all.

I dance around my meaning, like my room, fearful there is none,
only ramble, touch and sensation without cohesive element,
life-like. It is about coming and going, everything all the time,
with infrequent intermissions, too few timeouts where two sometimes
more people step aside and find themselves alone in small rooms.

Draw in and listen.

Chagall 2018

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