alone at the window
she ties up the sash
the street below

one flight down
so close
she can touch

the slow night life
in passers-by
the time strides by
two-by-two

a pretty girl with flowered hair
from a balcony tosses beads

Dulcinea above petals that waltz
rains down from the fire escape

in wonder under melted snow
she beckons a frosted kiss
icicles melt into rivulets
that run her chin down her neck

refreshing sips
sunlit water
still so calm
too deep

a wooden bench – a frozen lake
vees of faraway flyers dip then soar
in echelon back to home

I have loved her in the wind
among tall grains we ran to flee

I have quenched my thirst with a long draught of rainwater
sipped from the taut concave of her abdomen,
the rhythm of her arc ebbs the flow
of a drink akin to tart citrus ade

one-flight up from the street,
a tenant is neither here nor there

how many nights I still walk off the ledge
into mid-air

and in the late hours
I relish the first-floor’s rarefied gas
the omniscience of feet on the street

Chagall 2018

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