It’s an old photo
from a cheap camera:
you and me on the run
in dense forest, blurred
for too long a shutter,
extraordinary light washes
away, evanescent at edges where time
bleeds to the back, recedes like a wave
from the child within moving on.
Interspersed palpitations, sun on silver backing
would capture the moment no more.
© Chagall 2014
There’s a song that I sing,
it escapes me
without thought,
no lyric but lilt.
Leaves me winded
and dizzy, though I manage
the pace of the line.
I breathe on the beat
where my grace notes should be
to precipitate delicate action.
In lush exhalation
I hum in the shift
of two tones.
© Chagall, 2013
Years ago
I studied French
took my cassettes
wherever I’d go
would carry my Walkman
partout
écouter et répéter
everyday on the subway
pretended I was
sur le Metro
would sing
with Aznavour
(my back turned
in the shower
my hands like another
lover’s, running
down my back)
trimmed my mustache
a la Hercule Poirot
smoked, opined existential
posed as Sartre would
cried in quiet solitude
painted my face
just like Pierrot
and ogled the ladies
as Vadim must have
Bardot
peut-être jusqu’à demain,
peut-être un autre jour
© Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 