Dear Mr. Chagall,
What does the chicken have to do with love?
It is always there,
Peeping slyly from behind the flowers
While the lovers embrace on their golden clouds,
Or carrying them on its broad downy back.
How does it figure into this high-wire flying act
Or the raveling-up of arms
Against the vermilion night?
The goat is there too,
Un-effacing and debonair,
Musical as well,
With a knack for well timed bouquets.
I'm so confused,
Bumping into birds and fish,
The lyric scope of the moon
And the angels, adding to the clutter;
Wondering why everything's so beautiful,
Even chickens,
And two happy strangers,
The world just wrapping its arms around them both.
c. 11/3/09
