Friends from where I used to work have since moved on
to where I later worked, and now I don’t know
where I know them from.
Chagall 2018
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“I induced principles without truly knowing anything about
the taxonomy of the domain. These later proved to be cutting edge.
I knew I was on to something.”
(Chagall, Carlos; Life From a Fire Escape, 1911, Alphabet City Press)
Chagall 2018
A butterfly alights on my arm, flutters
vigorously then settles, says you saved
me once when I was a mere caterpillar.
Her monarch wings on my cheek brush ever so slightly
as thank you, then to the treetops she zigs, invisible
in the angle of sunlight she rides, zags unseen in
intercession, having flown away.
Chagall 2018
We move as a magic hand, our chevrons
sketch the same subtlety as our synapse,
similar circuitous routes we take
over the landscape, this ecosystem
is home, we are the flight we imagine,
the patterns we choose, gestures we make,
bonds we forge, one in the all.
Chagall 2018
Now autumn’s gone, I’m hoping spring is near –
(crescendo, harmonics fade to silence)
Skipping over winter…
(dim to blue spots)
…this year
(fade to black, hold 1 beat, voice echoes to final rest on 2)
Chagall 2018
If I had money
I would be a
big spender.
Chagall 2018
The cherries ripen more swiftly now,
the days are hotter, nights colder,
sugar sets up to engorge the red drupes
to dangle provocatively off the stems, curved
burgundy skins reflect morning sun
like windows under mist.
A large bird caws, unseen but heard, says
all but the fruit is poison.
Chagall 2018
A shooting star
twilit celestial filaments
across my lashes no longer than half-an-inch
yet up there the fantail of light
is twice many billion miles
nearer than your lips and heart
to mine.
We caress at time’s edge
under corona, or maybe it’s umbra
but who’s to say?
Steady pulse
of shade to light
shadow to crown and
you to rain.
We are leaves invert
we are tips of roots
we are that from which all is derived
we are constellations.
We have begat
the universe
that which is
out there
is small.
Chagall 2015
Skeletons tinkle too despite the lack
of a urinary tract, see how graceful
the clear liquid streams, an arc
of calcite regaled florentine.
Language is pretty much
the same way. A mouthful,
wadded ideas all
garbled up in tongue, lips,
palette and aspiration.
Sighs are so puffed and pretty, especially expelled
along necklines, anywhere there’s a pulse,
the heart of a lover’s palm, inside the wrist.
Along the long tendon of the leg
to the instep,
the sole.
With pressure to every pulse
we build energy to lift ourselves
up.
Ideas invert. They go inside-out
and in again – an endearing enduring
tickle.
Trinkets. Souvenirs. Memory
enabled. That time we had wings
before arms, when we’d soar
wildly ere twilight, low over
crisp nightfall, the winking yellow
flicker of home.
Chagall 2018
Frigging caterpillar
crawling down
the
t
a
b
l
e
l
e
g
.
I gently get her
to wrap ’round a chopstick
and return her to earth outside.
Chagall 2018
Alphabet City 