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)


I let you go, but you remain where devotion lingers with leaf-curtains drawn; and dreams gather in pools of verdigris; where c...

popular on this site