returning to the house
I am aware of its presence
I see it there reflected
in the bay window lurking
behind me on the walk
mist and sound and feel become one
blur
we are what we taste – it whispers
Chagall 2019
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While observing her ass in the mirror, I thought,
I wonder how the goldfish are doing?
Chagall 2019
I am awestruck by how hair absorbs water
Who designed such a flawless pairing?
Rainbows hatch in the falling beads,
the cascade of droplets
from the crown of the head
of the celebrant bent back
dipped to touch the water
Sunlight would find its way through
more readily then
Now most halos are
merely astigmatism
not magic
Chagall 2019
Peel off this haze,
help me to feel the rain
The rush of floodwater
compels me
Release, be awash!
Fingertips just miss,
they slip in the mist
Goodbye outstretched hand
Alone in the eddy, in the swirl
hunkered in, clenched down
on the tiller tightly
(Awaiting the falls)
I am the speck in the din of the roar,
a glint of ice in the throes of infernos
A tone resonates…overtones,
poignant intervals – the lost umbilical chord,
a heavenly chorale of angels afire with passion
awash in powder-blue dew
Life,
People
(Love is long)
Love is largest
Chagall 2019
Alone,
this sheet
of debris
falling in
black space
all around
everything
fallen
in situ
such so
we cannot know
how high were we before –
before descent
was a go…
how long ago?
before the pain
that precipitates
this – our longing for torpor
for deep sleep
at the edge
where existence ends
will we ricochet
and ascend?
Chagall 2019
I pretend today
that grandma’s alive,
in her flat just across
the bridge
It’s morning and
she’s having tea
with babka and butter
while sitting at
her front-room window
facing the life on the street
one floor below
She hums old folk tunes,
short lilts of melody with each exhale
punctuated now and then by a sip
I will call her today to tell her that I love her and
that Isabella and I will pick her up Friday at noon
to spend the weekend
To see the colors
of the fallen leaves
Chagall 2019
…so many little big bangs…
Chagall 2019
Years have passed, you’re still beautiful,
age brings deep rich hue to the wood,
the lathed curves of tender fingers,
delicious lines along the lithe
supple runs, breasts to abdomen
Inside of you – an Escher curve,
I traverse this rapture alone,
endure ice-blue twists, dip your soul,
to arrive at a lava melt
that cools and hardens, conceals you
To break through I let out a long bellow,
deep and rich resonance massages us,
you gradually soften to engulf me,
a warm blanket against fierce tempest wind
that will repel and expel me again
Once again,
yet again
In time droplets gather
Fine dew along the seam
A teardrop trapped in a lash
eventually falls
Chagall 2019
she repeated over and over
…three points cut a line, three points cut a line…
as if in delirium – orgasm’s throe
and I’d say to her that two points determine a line,
every middle-schooler knows
only for the Euclidean
she’d tease, her eyes rolling back
Chagall 2019
There – along the crease!
Incriminating evidence.
Chagall 2019
