His sound developed
out of water,
dripping like icing
from cakes;
sweet liquid fingers
anger the gods.
Flat oceans hold a deep
energy he
draws from,
like waves rushing
over unbelieving eyes,
salting the pain
onto cellophane skin
where it all
shouts release.
Rocks cool from
scattered rain,
where spots join
into a gloss
as if satin painted.
He measures the jazz,
opening with width,
digging out the deep,
spreading
the soil
to harvest the open.
Roger Singer 