When I was much younger
I could find affinity
in the eyes of people I’d meet,
some sense of kinship we shared,
but that has long since gone away.
Chagall 2018
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Jet-black hummingbirds stark against the
white fence-slats, hovering madly over the
tiny yellow-wiffle-balls nestled into the
bright-red trumpets of the nectar dripper,
extracting the rich sweet water, then
flying away at mach 3
Chagall 2018
Way up high
a walk-up, some windowsill,
rests an elbow nearby a clay saucer,
within it apricot seeds to dry so that
someday a tree might be born,
though she’s certain
not here
Chagall 2018
…and the bees so loud,
they are stereophonic,
more real than any buzzing
I’ve ever heard – so beautiful
bouncing in sunlight searching
among young petals sopped in morning dew
this hazy morning – the line of the
stone on the ground so familiar
traces arbitrary curves
meant for now
the warmth in the air
is a room I enter
when I breathe and
throw windows open
you are the
blue echo, the day before,
a glimpse through a picket,
once enchanted
… long before any dawn
Chagall 2018
I believe the birds themselves enjoy
a human trill if well-sung
Chagall 2018
She kept a small clay pitcher of
pot on the porch, beautifully
ground gold buds, home grown
right there behind the house
in her humble garden where
the sun traversed
perfectly
Chagall 2018
Odd that to provide her closure I had
to open a can of worms.
Chagall 2018
late sometimes
in the white noise
of the kitchen
night light
I’m withdrawn to
the first lunula of shadow
beyond the bright arc
awaiting earlier days
so many more
around then than now
I close lights
to darken still
I choose nights
cozier, a head under blankets
in wind and light rain, warmer
the smell of earth and
rich-hydrogen, air over lapping water
where salts outrun updrafts
I am happy
torn apart, enlightened and
rendered in heather
we grasp hands
and fly low over
dreamscapes
a kiss in wind-spun cascade,
winsome in the crescent
of banked firelight
it’s again tonight and
I’m in the kitchen
once more awash
in fluorescence
Chagall 2018
Lately I don’t trust anyone
not even my ownshadowownshadow
Chagall 2018
I wanted real bad to make this poem rhyme
but I couldn’t ’cause I ran out of time.
Chagall 2018
aesthetic/ascetic
Alphabet City 