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


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.





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