Alphabet City

sunset comes differently, depending who you are,
for who you are is where you are, at any point in time

cc: Chagall 2021

the tiniest of ants 
made her way back
with me from the garden

she scurried across the white Formica...
when I spilled my meager harvest onto the kitchen table

I grabbed a tissue,
corralled her, gently swathed her 
and made the short walk back 
to the berries to return her whence 
she came, safe and sound...

that's how we roll
here in the garden

cc: Chagall 2021

Am I a woman smoking I'm a butterfly,
or a butterfly toking, thinking...nothing.

cc: Chagall 2021 
(I'll be the roundabout...)

I wanted you to know that 
all the berries I pick are for you

I keep for myself 
only those irreparably marred

cc: Chagall 2021

The worlds behind you
are never there.

cc: Chagall 2021

In my mind is a quiet space,
a place with an anvil where I 
assert only hardened thoughts

cc: Chagall 2021

now
(lately)
I think
of myself
as a bookmark

a way
to indicate
a place in space 
and time; a point
from which to resume,
to pick up where I left off

I am no longer
(so different than)
a dog-eared page 

cc: Chagall 2021

a kiss falls
through sky
end over end

odd, 
as I thought
they  float

I turn my cheek,
avert its touch

cc: Chagall 2021

my home
depot
shit shipped

hurrah

cc: Chagall 2021

I exhale a plume of rich sweet mist
upon which a hummingbird flutters

cc: Chagall 2021