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Not a Dream; But Life
    (for Marc Chagall)

You, painter of pseudo-cubism Jews,
dreamer of carnival colors,
idle up, hermaphrodite beside you.

Your bright reds wrestle mossy greens,
the crucifix is cross-
of course, Monsieur Chagall you understand this.

The animals are gravid,
gravity has given up,
the Eiffel Tower strains through stained-glass window.

I sniff your flowered buttonhole
then tell you to your face,
Bella's severed head is sailing off to angel-laden space.