Charles Bane Jr.

Marc Chagall

There is an ache
in me like the feeling
that swells under feet on muddy
streets. It walks like
goats. It stops and sees
spokes of galaxies winding crowns
of watches carried in the pockets
of the faithful, who work and
sleep. Ballads rise like smoke
above the village. A rooster flies
and carries me. The tenderness
I feel breaks bread.


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