Near a century ago, cousins
from the old country had written
to her, my grandmother, to tell her of
new life, love, old life, and death,
she’d missed, the chronology of
the beautifully handwritten cursive
on paper unlike any I’ve ever seen
in size and touch, with a scent of
many years contained there in the folds and
the unfolding of many reads, here and there
a letter blurred, the errant pen of
the author or a teardrop.
© Chagall 2016
I’d rather dance just with you
perhaps even drink alone now that there is
some moon this New Year’s Eve
Your name is Jessica Eve so that makes you
the night before Jessica
(I was once the elf
of Saturday Eve)
I consider us one since we will howl
together in the wetlands tonight
The stars shift subtly look different
with passing time though not quite aligned
to the stroke at midnight
My heart will cascade its tickertape
among the fleeting, their raised flutes intone
ripe crystals, honed glass holds the promise
of the toast to which we all spring
Love & Peace in 2016
Chagall 2015/2016
The cut from your cheekbone
to the line of your chin down your neck
to the flat plain above your cleavage
where it separates into two perfectly
aerodynamic curvatures that cannot be comprehended
on graph paper or by formulae, could only have been
conceived and made real by One who truly knows
the meaning of lust.
Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 