The Moon is Full and I Have Chagall Fever

The crescent moon and sunlight consumed by the moon’s fullness. The violin violates the quiet and quaint acquaintance of an eyeful. The cow, with its rudimentary cuds, could only curse the night. The bull will not croon its lullaby; he & his Bessy will not take flight. It’s a circus, peculiar, not meant for sleeping babes in arms. Infants blink black and white; Chagall’s kaleidoscope alarms. The angels halt their silent night chorus to weigh in on Bach. The strum of strings stuck to the ooey-gooey moon ad hoc. A strange night, indeed, with flying fish - I thrice had that dream. Marc and Bella sail over the circus-clouds with weathered extreme. I shall fix upon a romance, most of us stay grounded, perhaps One leg lifts the skirt, and perhaps the armored chap in lapse Of selfishness, shows his shining sword, promises to protect His girlfriend, his bride forevermore with a diamond affect. Marc and Bella don’t look down to see who’s looking up. While couples fight for a win, they won’t give up their loving cup. Exploration of intensity and quadrants, amused in edenic perennial. Chagall’s, are the canvases I would inhabit. It’ll take a millennial.