Wednesday Afternoon before Chagall’s “America Windows” by Carrie Chappell

The peacock,
the small babe
wrapped in the hands
of the clock in his sky
or the cellos folded
in the lattice of glass,
in-swept by a few bars
of music. I am forgetting
where to start. The light

cast over their shoulders
made them bolder. Silhouettes
are silent but so are many

chambers. A purple dove
lording over—over
her body, and hers,
the ones who stood near me,
a peacoat and hoodie,
regarding the same man
fall to the city.

About Carrie Chappell

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