Roger Singer

In him

that thing

voiced a noise,

circling, surfacing, beating his

insides until busting out with the

jazz

then rising, filling the air

with his lightening,

pushing brass

into highs

and making the lows

cry tears of songs

deep

from wells where he sleeps,

thinking strong with

busy fingers,

counting

clouds in darkness

as he wakes in a sweat

of his thoughts

with that thing and the brass

pealing layers

of life away to the core of

himself.