The promise of anything surpasses, fantasy
is seemingly better than real
Until you bathe electric;
potential across even a shallow pool
will simply shock the shit out of you
Make your hair stand on end –
scare the wits out of you as the old lady used to say
I thought she was saying
scare the witch out of you
by the way
How we’d won her over
with nonpareils and parasols
to balance her in the rain
She rather relished being
the lightening rod now and then
“Not until you beat and bathe yourself
in the real.”
Clean zest zig-zagged fragrant rind
droplets of cold citrus oil sprays
mist gently delicious sweet orange-lime and lemon-cacao
Her breath came less, in tiny breathlettes
until she was all but breathless
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 