Lovers in a Red Sky

Only love interests me, and I am only in contact with things that revolve around love.
—Marc Chagall

And when they
discover what we

have done—
what will they think of us?

Will they know
how much you love me?

How your hand
thrust itself

into this tangled,
heaped-up heart of mine,

and pulled out
a wreck of gulls—

set them free?

Or how you blew out
each street lamp for me,

like a hundred
flickering candles

that had kept me
awake for years—

& just so I could
sleep through one bright night

in the safe darkness
of your heart.

What will they
know about us?

The moon,
and her procession of attendant stars?

Will they know
how—
how much I love you?

And will the moon
ask for her stars back,

the ones I stole
and wove into your hair

just last night,
while you dreamt

of chasing the same stars
back to earth—

those falling stars,
like the bright flash of a wish,

of that “once upon a time”
little girl you used to be,

dreaming of a love
of your own?

Ahh, we shouldn’t worry, love—
more than not,
they will give no heed…

But what if,
O love,

what if our loving
makes us lighter than air,

and in the red setting sky,
we simply start to float—

above it all.
Above all the men

in their fine hats,
and all the women

in their complicated dresses,
twirling their parasols

over their shoulders,
their serious eyes

fixed to the ground
as if it were lines
from a sentencing.

And then—
over freshly planted fields,
over hamlets.

And of those who notice:
some will call it madness,
others will look down,
embarrassed,
shuffle their feet in the dust.

But can you see
over there—

that young man
on the roof with his sketch pad,

that one
reading the verses
of changing light—

he will record it all
in shades of red.