I had such grand enthusiasm, until the pop;
a bubble untethered, remnants of rainbow alit on the ground,
the smell of glycerine in salted air, hope in freefall,
nearly imperceptible droplets – moist matter – for a moment
tickle cheeks, then dry to chalky dust, as tear-dew does

This voice inside me impersonates intercession on my behalf;
kindle that stokes ambition is best not left to chance, so
I splash my face with palmfuls of water, and begin the search
for tiny twigs

Chagall 2019

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