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What began with Chagall


They were out of place, this explosion of roses in the swirl of blue town
The neighbors awoke not to the gentle sun
but to the grin of crimson.

The roses were all wrong, blooms as huge as impossible promises
but they were loud and brash and totally in love
with themselves.

Folks on one side of the street kept their distance
gathered blue paint in the fields. Those on the other side
knelt before the roses, learning the language.

On Tuesday, the roses blast open
a shrapnel of petals landed on roofs and roads.
Landed on the faces of the town folks.

At first the children ran around trying to catch the petals on their tongues
Church bells were silenced, suffocating in petals.

By Wednesday, some neighbors were begging for blue
to pull out the red thorns from their skin.

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