Monday, December 01, 2014


Perchik, your beetle-dark eyes,
sauteed garlic and red-peppers
spiced by the ghost of Notella;
a turquoise collar at my throat;
the wind people on my skirts,
that cloud-bank we invented

until--your purple bicycle--
its greasy glance of disdain
jangled the curves of the bridges
between the canals of the Nevà:

Kolokolà, kolokolà, kolokolà.

Le Cirque (Marc Chagall)

the song of a shell sapphire melting inside jade a color unnamed Ofra Haza's version of this song defies categoriz...

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