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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.