C is for chariot, for chair, for child. For chiaroscuro and cartouche. C for

Caravaggio’s cherubs. A cornucopia of cherubim crowding the painting’s

frame. They were there in the conservatory of citrus. Inside the crushed

coat of velvet. Where otherwise there was only darkness. One could not

be rid of them, staring back with cerulean eyes. C is for feeling caught

between two chapters, see-saw, see-saw. C for cavity, canker-sore,

chicken pox. For crawl and cartwheel. C for my uncertainty. For the

carrying, across a wide channel, a slow conveyance from one side that

was your life, to the other, which you cannot yet see. A cloud cover

conceals every conception. C is for chime. A considerable wind had

blown that morning and chimed me into being. Would a considerable

wind finally decide I am ready to do the chiming?