I sort the curio, retain only matched sets,
though some of the one-offs are dear, no mate,
a martini glass stenciled 40-yeah! one-timer,
a fluke, fucking flash in a pan, now faded.

A polaroid still on the road to drying after years,
almost captures the light, the spark, the day, the throes,
the candle, the song, dead voices finely sung but not gone.

Happiest of birthdays are those not the last, come slowly
next year, creep not bolt dear seasons, rein in
time the steed, may moments linger, luxuriate eternal
in now, nothing else, naked – we bear – we bare to be naked
before ourselves, and we do not dare dance bathed in moonlight
fully clothed.

I search for you every inebriated evening, to pass the time,
the note, the bottle of port, the salt, the good word
about all that’s to come, the excitement of merely alive tonight,
abuzz under skies, watching low planes fly home.

Maybe we’ll answer the question, beneath stars constellate yet to be pattern,
two can convince one is One and worlds explode into splendor.

Nod, assent, ascend on night-air-light, alight on rooftops in downdraft,
silent without quiver or bow on a drainpipe, surely footed.

I’ll escort you to the ground now, this ballast is my last,
we circle down to the ground now slowly, slowly…
not too fast.

Chagall 2018