At the seam of the mist
she dances on shard.
The hurricane redoubles, whipped glass,
her lamp splays across the crag,
barefoot maniacal, strands of
soaked being, where sea becomes storm.
She brighter than the lightning
failing to illuminate her moment aflame.
The air is filled with
the howling song of massive woodwinds.
Perhaps calliopes
she whispers.
© Chagall 2016
Quickly before the fire dies
leaving us in darkness
I need to see your face
the round of your cheek
soft lash holding
a bead of tear
Chagall 2015
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
Bodies strewn
all about,
the echoes
of bossa nova.
© Chagall 2015
Mother and kid hawk in quiet soar
in tight and tightening circles, just morning,
don’t ever concede or succumb to those without passion,
would rather die.
© 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
Alphabet City 