MARC CHAGALL

hosts in the sky
on an unspoken wind
the prayer wheels
always driven
in our eyelids
for a tender rapture
below milk white stars

The village house beyond
homelessness in exile
rents passage to borders
in language of her own
we take evasive joys
gardens of a little wood
beside a fallen ladder

The stars milk white
as sundown in my room
leaves music of the spheres
in a crippled beggar
expecting phantasms
in his grey gone eyes

The room
is still a child's
incomplete as a gesture
in echoes of the wheel
picking up stones
by empty houses
awaiting a pardon
in a vocabulary of God.