Alphabet City

An idea lies there
in dry grass, a starlit field, on its back thinking
one idea’s ego, vain to think, conceives itself
contemplates the world

Rises and hovers
a swelled mainsail filled with air bound oceanic
o’er powerful waves rushing the jagged night coastline
searching for harbors

I have flown too far
swum too long with the currents to ever return
rides the scree, updrafts, feeds on heron, on itself
then fasts for forty days

Dreams need to touch down
a superior mirage there where the sky ends
tangled in gulfweed too close to surface tension
attraction pulls deep

Glimpse of air, drowning
so sudden this transition, failed attempts to rise
falling through water a slow motion acrobat
feet first is fastest

Alights on the silt
there on the bottom, no sound just joy, buoyancy
starfish everywhere wonder where the light comes from
pushing through the dark

The idea lies there
gazing up at starlit wakes on abyssal plain
one idea’s ego sad to think it conceived self
contemplates the world

Rises and hovers
a swelled puffish filled with air bound celestially
‘neath powerful waves under the ancient coastline
among lost harbors

I have come too far
against all of the currents to never return

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Please see Lithographs for another poem in this form