I do so want to untether
but what to sever, to cut?

Afloat a sky of many eyes,
awake blue flutter,
cloud-horizons, wisps
fall through helium
precocious and cold,
near autumn below.

Everywhere seemingly the hum of machines,
large and small,
fix and prune,
to make right the stray hand of nature.

The stranded blare of a horn, on-stage
or maybe a taxi when all the world
is foggy, early morning bakery-goers
groggy from the night, savoring
cinnamon jelly doughy dawn.

Dark pekoe brings out the night again,
air and color,
breezeways pervade my every sense,
each dialect I use,
the refrains my
heart sometimes hums.

I bounce when I hit the high note
and ricochet… exit – a sharp propulsion,
spirit and mind, honed to a point.

Nerve, sinew,
saline, thought:
exemplify ballast.

Chagall 2018