There’s not a single red star
that’s yet died
Chagall 2019
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When she was a child we played a game:
we pretend to be high on a cliff at the edge
losing grip – our footing – we plummet
down off the bed, from Everest
At the last minute grabbing hands in mid-air
– in outstretched rescue every sinew, each muscle
straining to hold onto life
She writes that it’s readied her well for the fight,
she loves me, it’s time to let go
Chagall – 2015, revised for 2019
From the cliff Julia guides the anemone
fluorescence to write her name in the sea
If only people knew
she ponders
Chagall 2019
I punch at the air,
thinking I’ll knock
some sense into it, so
I swing and I miss and
instead catch myself
on the chin.
Chagall 2019
Sweeping the cutting room floor I find
sweet snippets of verse about you
Chagall 2019
The dead, in the life of night,
parade among toppled stones,
incite the dance from below
to rhythm scored by moonlight
A lullaby
for days gone
Reel and waltz, ye phantoms!
Pirouette nimbly sublime
among raked rocks, fading candles
lit by wistful prayer
In time time ceases
Out of time
Chagall 2019
My abdomen bulges
from internal pressure
I exert to convince
you of things plainly so.
Chagall 2018
If ever I end up
in a hospital room
awaiting my final hour,
break me out.
Let’s have one last adventure.
I would rather die sloppily in my own backyard
staring at your face, then neatly in some sterile room
without you.
Love, Chagall – 2019
Even now I wave goodbye
till the car turns the corner.
Chagall 2019
The time found when
one is excused from
having to perform
a previously scheduled
and daylong duty, begets
such wanton pleasure.
Chagall 2019
Alphabet City 