Alphabet City

I know it’s trite to ponder
is it real or a dream,
a well-worn writer’s device,
this question of whether or not

the loss of self so profound
that one has to wonder and
wander about, the stuff on which
it is founded and grounded

wisps abound,
images fleet, hinting,
leave me melancholy,
wanting

so many symbols
so real

I never agreed to
be a part of any
equation

please let me live
in my favorite space
with my daily routine,
my mundane happiness,
these trivial concerns
of mine, my easily
begotten
joy

allow me to be
simply small

irrelevant

to anyone
but a few

and most of all
grant the children,
the babies born today,
peace in their time

Chagall 2020

sight no longer comes effortlessly

I can feel my eyes, the effort they make to draw
in the light, to sketch the world about me

like liquid through a straw
the photons pulse my optic nerve

purple – this way!
orange – over here…

upside down I turn myself
correct side up

happier
inverted
happier

ceiling moldings are curbs
and chandeliers are art-deco tables
we sit around, seated on ceiling tiles

above us only carpet,
empty shoes
that defy
gravity

stepping from window ledges
we float airily up
to our deaths

vision saturates my brain
like a sponge drinks water

I am all things sensuous
and sensual

I see
therefore I am

Chagall 2020