Beyond the creak and imminent break of one long bough
leaning heavily into the wind, is a call too easily solved
in the simplicity of its rhythm and disingenuous lilt – obviously
human, and not a bird at all.
I do not respond but instead curl deeper
into the luxurious mat of dry leaves
over loam deep with the scent of Gaia.
In my mind I still retain
the true calls, and the respective lengths
of each intended silence.
In that fabric – that dialogue –
is the coming actual.
Chagall 2018
I am growing bioluminescent pole beans. They are beautiful
at night, girdling the garden trellis, pulsing
neon blue.
Chagall 2018
Go into my office, the two bookcases when you walk in –
about waist-high – the one on the left – there’s a stack
of black cases – the old Pimsleur language cassettes – see them?
Next to that there should be an opaque gray envelope. Call me
back if you need anything else.
Chagall 2018
A slow drop of rain
falls heavily on the plain
Heavenly on the pale reflection it puddles
perfect in every way
Falling in time, once again misted
against stems I cling to
twine after twine
Finally carousels slow to the ground
long after everyone is gone
…sleepy heads
While high above outstretched aerialists hover
to wish one another adieu
Chagall 2018
Water from a bough above
falls upon a lower leaf
breaking the absolute
silence of sight and sound
in the garden
Chagall 2018
In the intervals of silence between birdsongs,
certain periods of rest are absolute in their timing,
and on appropriate up or down beats, only particular replies allowed.
Chagall 2018
I do not impress the Carolina Wren perched on the purple lilac
when in response to her intricate call I whistle Brian May
– the opening attack, Queen’s Stone Cold Crazy
Chagall 2018
Seeker searching for hidden odes,
arbitrary poems, to be moonlit kissed
Chagall 2018
My ear is fooled. What I at first thought was the distant voice
of a poet, is instead the very nearby rumble of
an imminent and reckoning rain.
Chagall 2018
I once saw a bee inside my porch screen
materialize magically on the outside of the mesh.
Astonished, I figured there’s a hole in the material
and I somehow missed his exit via the gap.
But you must trust me – there was no such interruption
in the flow of the tiny crosshatch of the screening.
Not a single horizontal or vertical line broken anywhere.
Chagall 2018
Alphabet City 