In the distance, a voice through megaphone,
alerts swimmers to take your marks.
There is no ensuing gunshot,
just a long uneasy spate of moments.
Tension at the blocks,
toes maintain their grip.
Hairless bodies, poised aerodynamic,
coiled, ready, to spring-explode.
Yearn to return
to the element.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
We . . . eternities
stretch – out beyond to both ends . . .
are the ellipses.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Darkness.
The air is cool,
a powder-blue spot
soaks the black
with hush.
The sharp rap of heels
across the stage,
picked up by the mic as I near.
No one.
The hall is empty,
save the light-man
and me.
Dance.
Arms and legs cross,
I carve graceful lines,
pirouette.
And rest.
Darkness,
the air is cool . . .
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 