Alphabet City

When drowning in the short-term throes,
stick it out

This is as the long-term you
would want you to

Chagall 2019

I stare aimlessly while a stink bug – halyomorpha halys,
attempts to insert itself into the crack of
a crock, where the lid seams the sourdough urn

Chagall 2019

Additional

it is lured by the culture, the life that is there in the fermenting sourdough starter

I have flicked them from screens and they alight each time
in the spacings between the wood planks that comprise the porch deck

of the family Pentatomidae,
they are masters of the flat squeeze

oddly, they often end up on their backs and are unable to turn over,
an unusual and certainly less-than-preferred characteristic
(with respect to survival-at-large, for any species)

in France, these are
punaise diabolique

outside, barefoot, in the damp misted morning,
I listen to the calls of rising birds in the back,
and I raise my head to respond

not necessarily
do I
imitate their calls

but rather
I try to convey
the same gist as they

being certain to prelude each song
with the tag of the proper partner
– the one to whom I am intending to reply

for each has their own lilt,
it’s me, come listen…

there are many on the rise
this shining wavy day

Chagall 2019

Nightlight on the wall, two hand-spans above the baseboard,
glows amber under its shield, lacy-silhouette on the matte-paint-finish behind,
while the rest of the world tapers silently to blacker shadow

I stand back, illuminated, afar, without sound, to observe,
awaiting the event, I realize that I am the tableau before me

I hold her close to ground existence;
she is the figure

If ever displaced in time or space,
she and I will pretend the other is simply beyond the door, nothing more

But for now, beneath the nightlight, I place our blanket down, huddle under,
warm save the small breeze through the eyelet we leave,
for the coming and the going of air and light and spirit

Chagall 2019

Consider an imaginary line
drawn from the pupil of each eye

If these lines run parallel,
then – and only then –
can you be certain you are
focused on infinity

Chagall 2019

The diaphanous blurs I see descending are
surely falling angels

Chagall 2019

I search every lost and found I find,
I’m losing you, founded on loss
upon finding I lose.

Chagall 2019

After years of searching, I have finally discovered myself,
only to find that my brain is now suing me for infringement of patent.

Chagall 2019

In my mind is a rock against which I lean-to
whenever peace is needed. Beyond the open flap
and the rain, from my warm venue I can see
the tops of tall pines visible below in the lightning.

Chagall 2019

The wrinkles in the towel,
the way the sun throws shadows
into the folds of the fabric,
they form a face, a young woman smiles shyly,
her left cheek emblazoned in light,
so real that even when the towel is gone,
she is still there

I see her everywhere now, in stone and wood,
in dense tree canopies, upon the lake’s ripples,
(though less so in clouds)

The ground of all that is,
is the tracing of her

She is implicit in every niche,
I sense her with every breath

Perhaps she is the dark void behind me
that I can now trust

Or the blinding not knowing before me
I await

Adoration at first sight,
the scent of bougainvillea
releases when trampled underfoot
by the garden’s dancers

She appears in twilight
when daylight fines to mist,
stark, aglow amid flowery vines
she gracefully – playfully – performs her plié

I am but imagined myself, a pile of folds
in sunlight disguised, shadows configured
to confound, to conjure sentient impression,
so real that even when I am gone,
she is still here

Chagall 2019