I start with a notion of myself
from which all else grows
my cheek sinks into a cold pillow
and I heave a sigh for having never felt
this good
under a spell –
a concussion, under water
harmonic
metallic dinghies
upside down in waves along an island sporting
a solitary palm tree
rarely have I backstroked
this long or so well
just like my mother,
I’m buoyant
© Chagall 2014
Summer samba
drifting to the
hotel window
where curtains blow
so softly
Standing here in
salted air on
barefoot toes
I stretch and reach
for stars not there
And yet so real
so real, so real
© Chagall 2014
We’d kiss deliciously
after having had bonbons
© Chagall 2014
It took me time to understand
I’d mistaken the flute as her voice
My awareness highlights her colors
to tingle emphatic – what we feel
All my memory is in her scent
clove-scented smoke from sacred temples
In glints of sunlight trapped in surface tension
atop the shimmer of water
Hot sand sculpts our contour
ablaze we burn
Huddled under soft down under colder stars
under one another under no pressure
Pondering only the oldest questions
I have nothing but the newest wonder
She breathes, while I catch my breath
and exhale sharply, she gasps
And then we wholly surrender
to a sigh and the rush
To a
hush
© Chagall 2014
Everyone around stares
at plastic-silicon
while we gaze now instead –
we pour ourselves – into the timelessness
of sunlight on our foreheads
and upon each open palm
and parted lip
© Chagall 2014
by her, the past participles
– really the fine particulars
weaved in the brightest future
always was while weren’t
on the other hand both swept away. Slower living certainly
though purported to be an umbra. Above all else
above any smile, just once that I should watch
and she would see
© Chagall 2014
Please dear God
don’t let her become
the moron
that I am.
© Chagall 2014
In February 1987
before she passed, I asked her to narrate her recipes
and I would scribe.
To the day almost
these decades later, family is over and I cook her favorites
almost to a tee.
Our love
that winter dormant for so long returns
emerges as seedlings.
© Chagall 2014
pearled, blew on pink
lips drawn slowly
recede. Delicate press
cracks, the strung bow
perceived motion
stopping here
each lash unique
so clearly discerned
© Chagall 2014
I tell you how much I love you
careful not to raise my voice
above the sound of the running water
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 