The night fills with different patterns,
strange constellations – certainly not mine.
Whose sky is this?
Breezes, sharp zephyrs in trees
and sprites on-hand blow hardest,
then fade, then die.
Too many times,
but once is too many
maybe.
And lights
go out.
In the firmament
and across the way,
chariots where once there were cradles.
Such a strange sky.
© Chagall 2014
And in that single exhale
eternal release
© Chagall 2014
In my dream it’s before the loss,
he’s that little boy in the flowers
running about me with a garden hose
soaking my blouse, he laughs crazily
happy, his short hair beaded
with sweat and water, and each of those
reflects the sun of a gone again
perfect day.
© Chagall 2014
I’m not certain why the garden slants that way
perhaps to accommodate some ancient root
by its steppe it dials in perfect light
follows the curve of the land
from rise to late when whistles blow
fleeting hours when day is long
Though you’re right
it does seem odd now
© Chagall 2014
Finally in the moment once latent
I emerge from sepia emulsion
feeling a wee bit Polaroid
© Chagall 2014
I’d rather be
incredibly high
for one grand night
than to be
just a bit
for a few
© Chagall 2014
1963 Alphabet City, between 6th & 7th, south of Tompkins Square Park
Oolong tea two sugars – I’m back! Charlie’s Chinese on Avenue B.
© Chagall 2014
Nary a question
yet so many answers
© Chagall 2014
I imagine his memory of me, myself anew, image inverted
in polished specula, arranged to reflect the deeper end
where form and touch precede the vapors
An air too thin to breathe
grips my breast, this hollow where spirit resides
Tousled so giddy then, now my love
lacks legs so I hobble, hush and expel
warm breath from rounded lips
In steam I trace mosaics that vanish
once rendered, in a gallery I lie hidden
hands over ears, my heart squeezed shut
to count the fallen footstep
© Chagall 2014
It’s becoming every time I’m gone
you go and come again.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 