The edge of me rounds out,
Running with jazz,
pulling on paper words
and twisting of hair in a crowd
where sunglasses
hide searching souls and feet eager for
a place to call home like buttons spilled
rolling and slapping
round on a floor without mercy
in a smoky room where last names
don’t exist
and whispers melt from corners
and chairs tilt and heads nod to a beat
while legs jump with heaven raised hands
in a night place
without a name answering to the call
of sound where blankets of brass
cool over the skin
brushing off the dust while breathing
in the black and letting out the light.
Advertisements
