I slept too late that morning,
awoke to find you, your coat on,
head down, hand on the door, though we’d said goodbye
the night before I still wanted
to see you one last time.
© Chagall 2015
Tag Archive: Love
My numbers are all messed up.
You’ve denied me twelve times,
monthly really and three times I’ve risen,
leavened, refreshed. I’ve but seven left.
© Chagall 2015
I’m learning new words
Such beautiful languages
All my friends have spoke
© Chagall 2015
She said flowers are for making
sweet nothing of the air, she’d wave
her bouquet in sweeping arcs,
to trace comets she saw there,
streaks of scent, slow color to fade
figments, flames in the dark dimmed
to a lilac’s breath, her intentions lingered
longer than she, still remain.
© Chagall 2015
You and I, we are
such partitive people,
our hearts set on some
or any, but never specifically
this one, a bit of or a kissful
of that.
© Chagall 2015
Once as a girl I was saved
shaved in many directions
to the point, rapier wits
poised, ready to please
left me breathlessly awaiting
a pulse, passion and reasons to live,
to fly was all I could do, would want to
lose myself in long walks, warm downpours
would slowly trickle and seep, my heels on the bricks
echoed in alleys and fine halls, sounding better, much rounder
on marble, I’d love how the glasses tinkled while laughter
rang out then simply faded and died so quickly
so easily lost though fingertips touching
forever so lightly, ever longing
fine starlight, these prisms
of stars, I’d wonder, I’d ask myself
why go on irresistible time, place really matters doesn’t
matter so I choose to leave, to stay, to go, to exit flamboyant
when I was a girl once, combed in elusive fashion
© Chagall 2015
I
I mention it’s about 10 per week or so,
enough to get the point across,
but not enough to skew it.
II
I tell her my shoulders hurt real bad,
she says I’ll start at the bottom, work up.
III
I remember nothing but overwhelming comfort
pressing in from all sides.
© Chagall 2015
Afloat social nets
We value cold illusion
Compressed in our shells
© Chagall 2015
She told me half the time she doesn’t listen
I told her that’s OK since the other half
I don’t say things she thinks she hears
© Chagall 2015
All I want to do is merely erupt in so many ways as you’re thinking,
I need more of me to go around to surround her singularly.
No matter how hard I try I cannot conceive nor convey her essence in this space.
She was asked once if she always flew
down or preferred instead to land, to which she replied:
It’s merely the flying, what more could I want,
what more would one wish for?
I’ve broken my mind and my wings, so many times
wondering if she’d rather be elsewhere.
Her ankle and calf traces the cumulus cloudy nimbus that rains on me,
then it pours on us, ending as a cold-blue drizzle.
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 