A string of vowels around your neck –
mostly ohs, some ays –
calls me, says linger a while

with ease

spend time at the collarbone,
speak in tongues, erratic soft kisses,
come what may and sometimes why

how many angels can dance
in the round ’round your navel?

I wonder, I ponder,
I drift way down yonder

away with words where silence reigns
and paragraphs puddle-up

lick the lips of a buttercup

consonantly yours,
truly forever

with best regards
till my sentence ends

until I am free
once again

wild and windblown
thought in a breezeway,
a notion in an alley-updraft
ascending to rooftops

down the fire escape, ringlet
curls cascade your face and shoulders
where one-syllable words are writ in primary colors

a you planted firmly in the hollow of your neck
another in the heart, and one – the forehead

with a ruler I draw a straight line
and brush away the letters from your cheek

with a felt fine-tip marker
I scribble my opus there

only us two

alone we two

Chagall 2019