Alphabet City

It’s raining in parts of me that had predicted splendor,
the patter of drops punctuates me perfectly
aside from simpler things, until it doesn’t

The trace around the stencil
of the letters that spell my world’s blue
is black enamel ornamented etching edged in a fine line of ice

Turgid meringue of paint, rigid and aroused brush strokes
on canvas where pointillists lie

Too deep in the colors I bring
to fade susceptible too paused
eventually to relapse or release perhaps

At the edge of white alders miles below, easy to reel and harder to breathe
cold thin air halfway to where space encroaches indigo spectacular onyx and aqueous
headfirst spirals home no less than a slither face-down in a snowbank

Should I never see this time again, know there’s no one to thank
and I did not fan my arms and legs to engender a frozen angel

© Chagall 2014