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,
mid-air,
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