chagall backdrop

She places her palms
on the flush of my cheeks,
rubs ice-cold
small tight circles.

I warm her
faster than she cools,
she freezes
before I burn.

Her fever pitch
is a little flat,
her grace note
sounds too sharp.

She’s minor keys,
exotic
open tunings,

but I hardly think
she’s a mystic.

© Chagall, 2013