A dog, not mine, safekeeps her rawhide chew-toy
at the base of my guitar stand, alongside
the dangling coil of my leather neckstrap,
there on the hewn plank floor.
Chagall 2018
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“Close cover, strike gently, keep away from children (Book of Matches, 1:1).”
Chagall 2018
It is time we revisit
the distinction between
can I and may I.
Chagall 2018
My mom used to ask,
“Who does he think he is,
Any How!” as if
Any How was a name,
like Joan or Bob.
She advised me
not to upset
the apricot.
To burn bridges
before they’re crossed.
Fooled thrice knows
no shame.
Chagall 2018
We waltz to the door of the last room,
walls of fir trees weep in the shadow light,
early evening, vespers here while elsewhere whispers,
how lovely an arc we cut, the angle of the quarter-moon crescent,
a drawn bow torqued, string-tight ready, we propel us,
no one else.
Over the transom in step we sidle, without aim
we dervishes twirl, devilish dust tornadoes arise
where our feet once were, warm air lifts our wings
apparent now in sunlight, the huge gold disks about us
pulse our time, vibrate the gossamer strings, tiny harps
arpeggiate ever so slightly…audible, tinkle our ear.
We break the three-quarter time of the dance,
to promenade squarely in four, about and around
then again, and on, such is love past this last room.
Down the fire escape
we glide.
Chagall 2018
What I thought at first to be
a dried golden-leaf clung to the fence,
I know now is a live vibrant-yellow-bird perched.
Chagall 2018
I feel so inept;
I do not know what we call
the era before stars.
Ere-light?
Place without time
rimmed blue in ice.
Chagall 2018
revises a piece from 2014
I yelled out playfully to put a move on, to stop
Salvador Dallying. In response she looked at me abstractly.
Chagall 2018
My time now was implied long ago
like cream in coffee stirred in reverse
the light brew darkens as white concentric circles
appear, dissolve and elevate as a single drop into the pitcher
before the pour.
I am level – on the horizontal now.
Chagall 2018
I read a poem tonight that should have
stopped at its first line, powerful and poignant.
Nine lines later – halfway through – I exited.
And then I edited, whittled my own work down.
Chagall 2018
Alphabet City 