There’s a draft we can ride
off the trees tonight
wavy spirals through
mid-air
Up we go and settle down
in meadow far from here
Where the world doesn’t stop
to spin long enough
to allow us to know
where we are
To a
point
we pretend
like we know
In it,
of it,
with it,
and through it
Bang a gong
if you’ve got one
© Chagall 2013
Alphabet City 