a turquoise porpoise attached to a jade-colored rope looped through a rectangular placard - a replica of a wave - that was her bookmark in summer wedged between pages pulled taut the porpoise would ride the top ream there at the binding, the thick thread (did i say rope?) hidden in the vee of the long fold amid the tiniest kernels of sand, warmed beach sand scented of summer oils and whatever was on the sheets, and the soaps, and the candles the sound in the air cc: Chagall 2021
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I find it very strange that wherever starlight is nearby you will find hope and sadness both and these always find their way into eyes make people howl and coo no nighttime-silhouettes without starlight I saw love shoot across the sky once in pursuit of a single beam of star, mistaking it for full starlight, the forest for the tree cc: Chagall 2021
In the alley, she whispered, what do you have, I said 2019 Your Honor, I was sitting on a beach minding my own business indulging in fine '19 Years from now, New Year's Eve, the ball is dropping, the island breeze so magical Your Honor and I...deep in 2019 cc: Chagall 2021
I retrace the lines of your handwritten letters and imagine you once sitting there I see what you saw as the ink flows cursively from your heart, to your head, to your hand, to the paper, now yellow and cracked where your fingers run the length of the folded seams; it seems only yesterday or a lifetime ago a small water stain outside the margin, perhaps a drip from a teacup that day that missed your lips and fell, to be absorbed or maybe a tear I wish I'd saved the envelope that held the missive close in hand, the flap and stamp that touched your tongue, a return address where no one lives today at least no one I know cc: Chagall 2021
Her body is a blackout curtain hiding the light within All the glimmer of stars it contains, hidden from hovering crafts in the air Even after the sirens cease, it stays drawn cc: Chagall 2021
When the net goes down there will be no net no way to inform us (yo-ho) why the net's down caught-22 when the tower goes there will be no sound no outreach no waves in the air to express goodbye a hum, an invisible pulse no virtual breath any longer cc: Chagall 2021
on the scale of it all we are nearer the end of the smallest of things cc: Chagall 2021
Behind a mask, anyone can be a ventriloquist cc: Chagall 2021
Where do the young go, do they frolic in a new field warmed by an old sun, or in aged meadows lit by now? Everything dies, sheds skins, to give way to the moment Once swayed by the song, the length of the body in dance presses on, listens for the rhythm, hums along until the tempos change And watch as if outside-in, themselves a third party, a single heart here... From the rise that emerges there in the lowlands, amid the mist and the faces, an outstretched hand, a single smile, a breath, a curl, a lash, a cool smooth cheek The incredible sensation, the surround of loving arms, the perfect nestle of neck in neck, a race to all that is good was once good I know now that blue continues long after the eyes are gone cc: Chagall 2021
Better days will come, my friend, at least that's what they say, and we will rejoice at their dawn. The lost along the way are strewn along the petaled path we spy, spirals into the hidden curve behind us. Before us the road well-hidden still bends there in the undergrowth. Moments turn to hours, goodnight turns to morrow... And way has led to way as has been told, and years and years from now, we - We will tell tales of a time when better days lay ahead. cc: Chagall 2021
Alphabet City 