The jazz of his well overflows.
The wetness of long images
drip fluid hot from fingers
playing the burn.
A sweet pleasantness follows him.
Years of heads turning form great
waves behind him; the applause
reaches distant galaxies.
He is a cat. A prowler of music forests,
yet tamed. Open souls are consumed
without resistance. He walks the confidence
others fail to own.
Motion serves him.
He follows only himself.
Roger Singer 