CELLOPHANE SKIN

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.

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