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.








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