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Over the Townwriting hand 2
xxxxxafter Chagall

Drawn to you,
despite despair
and multiple
letters of failure,
I lean into the lion-hued
wheat of your native
songs, insisting on blue
and yellow silk
amid the garden’s
chimes. Our kiss,
tiny bird, lifts us
and we become
sky, too deep
for stars, too high
for words.
We drift.
Replete. Wiser.
at the view.


Jeris at Bottle Houses