He left the room bruised
from his music; like a fighters
corner without a stool.
Strange eyes followed the linen
of his walk; the breeze he caused
and its wake smoothed into
whispered corners.
His steps owned the path to
everyplace.
No door offered resistance
to the warmth of his cool.
He shed his skin during music runs,
draining fast the blood of sound
through the voice of
his jazz brassed out.
Roger Singer 