The rock of his fingers

scratches out, pounds out

the language of jazz,

spreading over fast hearts and

soft skin.


A wretched smile, crooked with time,

boiled in emotion soup,

spreads him out

as he releases the scars of

high and low,

winds of cold

and years

remembered with trouble.


His fingers swim

the streams of persuasion

as the crowd moves closer

with eyes to his throne

where a wave of sound

becomes captured

and then released

into the

black of his breath.


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