after Chagall

Fall under
the white-gloved hornblower,
     goldheaded in lightfall splintered               
         from organ pipes'

glister, fall
with white eye-leaves under
     the blue viola, raise
     your roundend nose
         to the shameless

deepening, to fisheyed
    shadows rushing over
         dusk-shut shop

windows, hold
    the viola's bow,
hold
    the yellow-eyed moon
    white wingeating sun over

morning again, the wet
         bridges—

and she
swarmed in sinuate leaves for the late
    ballet—and he still new
         born, a boy

unculled behind
         these spiral doors.

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