Everyday we lose subtleties,
small gestures of grace and faith
now somewhere in the void.
Perhaps not irretrievable:
one would need a hand,
a borrowed shoulder and someone’s heart maybe to cry on.
I pulse, you pulse, the way it’s supposed to happen
over time.
A perch,
unseen bird relaxes
and intuitively expels
the only song in the world.
A branch,
doves couple and breathe
into one another.
So rarefied from atop the canopy,
I yearn to stretch and become the horizon.
God, I am so endeared to the splay of existence,
I shake because I feel too much.
Too much
fades away.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 