Tatted lace about the heart
of the secretly admired
is over time tattered.
Let’s not unveil our eyes,
not yet.
The spun world
welcomes lovers,
you’ve heard
the old song say.
It all comes undone,
your hair, your belt,
your inner peace,
when this reddest heart’s
at bay.
I will cherish
your innocence
until I won’t,
so sadly.
Farewell love,
time will have
no need to heal
this time.
Starched white tatting
hold sway, this Happy
St. Valentines Day.
© Chagall 2014
Radiation bathes the day
golden. Tiny particles,
outnumbering grains of sand,
accelerate along unseen highways,
across everywhere,
umbilici tethered to forever,
a chorus of Doppler,
coming and going,
come and go.
Singular, din
resolves to dulcet,
harmonics, hold steady,
carve out hollows, joyous peals,
unwavering.
I find her there,
in the overtones,
at perfect multiples of myself,
in the cool shadows,
of the old elms,
our backs to the sun,
inside the heat,
the inferno, the hydrogen ball,
screams at a billion degrees,
spits photons across eternity
like she does the soft white seeds
of pink melon.
Everywhere is center,
and everything recedes from the rest,
two steps forward,
no steps back.
Old pickups collect rust
at small town stations
I’ve passed through;
lavender, denim, loose white tops.
A dull bell claps on exit,
I wave goodbye
through dusty glass.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 