by Beebe Barksdale-Bruner
Our setting is not Chagall's. No pastels,
bridal raiment or curious cows lowing.
Ignoring gravity we are ink-heavy cobalt,
a flying circus they call us.
We bleed blues and sing silent indigo.
There's no magic here; your feet drag.
Listen, star-man, I know your pajamas
are felt and designed by Peter Max
to hug skin-tight but there are rainbows
only in our past. I am proximate
to your nose which fills my view with pores,
imperfections, the whisky blush on your cheeks.
I accompany you for a reason; to float
in a nightgown, to light the wax in your ear.