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.

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