How long am I allowed
This quiet rapture
I call myself,
This solitude, this grace?

Once I thought
I saw father there
On the rock by the lake
Watching mother swim away. 

She receding
Into the break of night,
The shadows and stars
Of her time and place. 

A figment, some phantom,
The play of senses;

My own nonsense,
The cunning whisper
Of an inner voice. 

I pray to be here for the long haul,
Longer than my two sisters passed,
Than the older brother never known,
Gone in utero. 

I’m last on the summit,
With a clear view to the cold light. 

Watching the swimmers float by. 

Breathing as hard as I can,
Inhaling the blossoms whole,

Licking with outstretched tongue,
Each drop of dew.

cc: Carlos Chagall 2026