She is comprised solely
of essential oils, lovely
silken flow, pistons in valve
lubricant, stamens on pistil,
pollen swollen anthers, she wills
the will of the wisp to do
her bidding, she calls sweetly
through the nightbird, coopts
its thin coiled chord to vocalize,
to trill appoggiatura.
I relax limb and tenon about her,
promenade on wrists and knees:
gymnopédie as it was meant to be,
arched, pointed, and flexed.
© Chagall ∞
I write at a desk
with a window behind me
When my screen goes dark
it reflects the sky
that spans there
over my shoulder
Where a red-tailed hawk
on air currents glides
circling my login prompt
Chagall 2016
My muse sits beside Lady Luck –
how sexy those two nibbling bonbons.
© Chagall 2014
I do it again,
peel the gold-foil wrapping
from the neck of another
poem.
I extract the cork,
straight-up, briskly,
neatly.
Out of its element,
the poem first takes
small panting breaths.
I ignore it, pretend to be busy,
a séance with Rimbaud,
perhaps a sonnet of vowels.
It develops nose,
emotes terroir,
softens its tannins.
Does a verse and chorus
of Leonard Cohen’s
Hallelujah.
I swirl it and snort it and sip it and swish it and spit it
out and taste the lingering . . .
Berry, chocolate, tobacco, and leather,
hints of pollen and honey,
grand cru.
This sort is rarely a standalone varietal,
usually, rather, the base for a blend.
I lick every drop I see running,
with expert plucks of my tongue.
I sense the bottle is bottomless,
sugary, vintage, a great year for sure.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 