Chagall drew us floating above the houses,
our skin the underneath blue of a winter fire,
our hands open in the mud-spill inside an oxen bin.
He was breaking into the snow of our city.
Despite the frantic wire arms of a naked woman
waving a cross you'll barely see, one black lacqured dot...
if it is a nostril breathing,
a flame forced at our throats.
Our title is lost, but we'll know it
by the reference of a stranger
so close, we can see the eyebrows.
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