She steps into the music.
Her fingers, thin brown pencils
sign the beauty of her voice
into the microphone;
a signature pressing through
metal.
Red singing lips. The voice of
voices within. Waters of her
storms gush to the surface.
Her rough sound blows
the crowd into smooth.
Her feathered hat; stiff
proud wings, like Mercury’s
shoes on the run and
a black veil misting her face.
She cries of voice
Roger Singer 