The circle of music. A muse of language.
Ups in high and low with downs.
The circle complete.
Rounding into jazz.
Straight roads with curves, paintings
without colors, water fountains wet
with voices dividing the air.
Magnolia sounds catch the June bug,
lightening the circle in my chest,
setting afire lights, allowing me to see
the vision of my walk, the curious line,
the pain where I live.
Cigar smoke lifts into fans. Faces
speak as if knowing other faces.
The music cuts, releasing bleeding
sounds. We are one of and part of,
formed within the plans of masters.
Jazz feeds the child.
Roger Singer 