A quiet place, this long hall,
a proscenium, this pleated space
before the blank page, the curtain arch
ahead of acts, beyond the music,
below the loge, on stage: soliloquy

Set about pinholes of stars,
golden ages peek through a vast sky adorned
in cold-air, brushed blue, velvet night unwritten,
each moment implicate order, now
implying then, such is light

I can dance but I’m better in rain,
shake my shoulders and stomp, puddles
erupt to wash slow waterfalls

I love my galoshes, twirling topsy like a
dervish gone turvy, along slick walks I slide

I waltz in warm rain –
One-two-three SPLASH!-two-three!

With face upturned, the storm runs over me,
the seep of the Holy Ghost runs as a warm shock
from the top of my head down my spine to my toes

Aqueous, I am reborn in the moment yet to come,
the then

Chagall 2018