Above rooftops and clouds I soar,
a hunt for abstract sublimity,
chancing the cold rare air found there,
a wish to wander where stimuli gather,
a grand-ball hall for synapse rather
than seeing them die on the vine.

So many doors lead elsewhere,
some have no knobs to turn, no
hinge to swing, no
transom glass to
usher light.

To wait is to succumb.
To fate! Too late
to extend a thumb,
I hop on The Bus, sip
droplets from stalactites,
salty pours the tongue.

Keeps me young.

As a child I dreamed I could fly
if I jumped high to overtake gravity,
I’d enter the flow of a wind barb,
stream myself lighter-than-air, to elude
the peril of mazes and dreamscapes.

But nowadays firm on subconscious ground,
defiant, deluded, I face the night macabre,
without flight or fear, still searching
for the rarefied.

Chagall 2018

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