Alphabet City

Epiphany comes
less real

Chagall 2018

If everything comes loaded with its context,
can anything any longer then stand on its own?

Chagall 2018

To arpeggiate
Angular ice fills the sky
Awash in snowlight

To arpeggiate
I find odder intervals
Stacks of pleasure tones

Angular ice fills the sky
Brave slashes of white on gray
Life’s odd urgency

Awash in snowlight
Frozen in grace outside time
Floating loftily

Chagall 2018

There is the sound of water that hushes
each and every time I am near enough to listen

Chagall 2018

Red hawk flies in snow
a visual form without sound
save the friction of miniature ice pellets
grating through the air

She recalls the sense of
having been once in echelon

Alights
alone on a frozen branch
to gaze into barren woods
intently

Warm for now
in updraft

Chagall 2018

You, with the strange telephone numbers who keep calling throughout the day
– go away!

Chagall 2018

I wish my mother was alive
so I could confirm with her
a memory I have of a song
my grandfather used to sing

Chagall 2018

I am the samba that remains unwritten
For the space between sand and sea
The dance upon rocks polished
By time made smooth in deep-water indigo

Bluer than wet waves, sails settle thusly at dusk
On horizons under constellations
Ceased to fail to bring grace
The incalculable wonder of eyes

The ponderous pout that poets beget
Forgotten before fadeaway
For the body, for warm city nights
For carousels, the songs they play

For the march of grand horses

Somewhere glasses touch, soft mallets
In search of the warm tone, the sensual rub of globes

I am that samba that snaps you back to the beach
In cool day, in bright coveted morning
A tip of the hat with a wink
Today is elementary sparkle
The samba that returns like the surf does
Though sometimes it stops

It’s true, so samba through
To the space between sand and sea
Samba to where you want to be

Leaning over the rail, a low balcony overlooks surf
A small fox at dusk darts furtively through the rough sandy brush
The backs of houses along the dunes along the beach along the ocean
Darkness settles on salted breezes aromatic with land crabs
Less fearful to exit their holes this time of day right before night
When the number of stars and wan atmosphere rival the majesty, the ocean’s roar

In pitch blackness, the world of the blind
The roar of sound dominates the ear

So goes the body
ere the fall of the mind

I am the waves you hear
Of this there is no denying

I am the song of the samba receding

Chagall 2018

To Wit
I’ve yet seen a sign to point the way
I’d surely high-step if it were

Chagall 2018