It’s not that I’m bipolar, so much as
I have got a thin divide twixt extremes.
© Chagall ∞
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Once we count the stars, what then
will remain to sustain our love?
© Chagall ∞
Sometimes you do – Yes, you do!
– a switcharoo.
© Chagall ∞
A Latina
plays soulfully
an ocarina
to a note
all
of the saddest songs.
So much to say
in a single breath.
No time
for a a kiss,
just breathe.
© Chagall, 2013
Originally this began more ornately,
a broad-swept flourish, a pompadour,
a bob exploring the wind, arabesque
and filigree. An idiot’s tale?
Nothing less, and now it simply ends.
© Chagall ∞
Autocorrect changed kiss off to kiss all without my knowing;
it’s probably just as well, all things as they must be.
© Chagall ∞
Grandpa would flash a spray of cool water
each morning on the panting gray cement
stones about the yard, colors and hues
of the earth’s minerals flushed deep
brought to life in small puddles
accumulated there near the clover tufts
holding tight in the cracks, the crevices
abutting the frame, the scene at large,
we pan higher than we did that day,
all of our life there in neat little
bunches of boxes in boxes where people we love
carry on, carry out their days, turning on and in
and out and back, to a different way as hope goes,
newly baptized, in deep commune, confirmed, wed to all,
in repose amid the somber hymns of concluding rites,
beneath grandpa’s spray, a flash of silver liquid,
an old man’s giggling face lost in the brilliant sun
of a promise forever solvent.
© Chagall ∞
Creatures of the kingdom appear to have homing instinct,
still I feel deep sadness for those who succeed to be lost.
© Chagall ∞
Today I planted four new trees, my goal is
to outlive each of them.
© Chagall ∞
The kids outside are playing their version of fear factor,
lying down in lavender amid dozens of lazily fuzzy bees.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 