You remind me of someone you were, how you do that
so perfectly effortless
Evoke the we that we were
cue the salty sea air
Everything about then is beach-washed
designs, that’s how I remember
How could it be otherwise, the
other times we would soar
Just a little
bit more
We remind us
of then
Join me. Inhale – long –
and hold it gently.
© Chagall ∞
Once in a landslide
I came to the edge
two steps away
from the fall
Carefully balanced
as if on trapeze
I prayed for
the crumble
To fall steady down
wind from anywhere
Anyone who cared could tell
I’d been asleep for a while
One final fingertip
scratches the ground
catching my breath
precedes free fall
then gravity
sinking, no water fills in the space
between me and the sky I float
down parting ways
Astride this time
unlike any I’ve ever ridden
must be the final wave
In crisp articulation
impressed on bottom sand
Running wild water angels
Awake in their trace
I lie down
© Chagall ∞
Once we count the stars, what then
will remain to sustain our love?
© Chagall ∞
Originally this began more ornately,
a broad-swept flourish, a pompadour,
a bob exploring the wind, arabesque
and filigree. An idiot’s tale?
Nothing less, and now it simply ends.
© Chagall ∞
Today I planted four new trees, my goal is
to outlive each of them.
© Chagall ∞
Lavender amulets tattooed on her legs, release their scent, tender zeal,
a vernal pool. Approach me my melancholy rockabye baby, cuddle up,
never turn blue.
© Chagall ∞
How subtle are these symbols, to clinch or to clench,
both embrace, one the certainty of winning, the other
holds tight to imminent loss, to quench, bring cooling
liquid, healing balm, through tight canals to affliction,
immersion in ice, or steam, infinite horizons of water,
too quiet, to hush someone lovingly with finger upon lips
shushing air.
© Chagall ∞
I pour water into the earth to watch it dissipate and percolate,
wondering where does the time go. The backs of my beach shoes
worn flat from my habit of not slipping in all the way,
my bare feet on warmed wood slats tell me I’m more alive now,
the sun underfoot, I am square, balanced atop the regolith,
a planet that spins and falls amid a din that I no longer hear,
the world that I see
as I follow the fan of my hand, implies all that there is
or nothing, depending solely on who I am, or no one.
© Chagall ∞
I search for the source, a vantage point
over which I hover to resonate, in order
to speak with alacrity, honored to be
the medium, the clarion voice,
le trompettiste; I flow and so
I’m a flower, a steady stream
of warm words awash in your ear,
the storm before the quell,
not merely a silent hour,
an end to separation,
a prelude to the loss
of the throb.
© Chagall ∞
I’m not sure
to trust in
my ear or my heart,
impatient
to convey, to commune, to go with
the rhythm already,
shunning sidestep,
when I breathe
the wax is eloquent,
each pause
brings new delight
in asides,
innuendo
more than any tryst
captured
a lover’s imagination,
a wink in due time,
and I am merely a waif
combed in elusive fashion.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 