Paths of dust circle his name,

rising like a sun of eyes

watching a circle of moons

fall into the river of his jazz

where he pulls heavy at the waters

twisting them up into waves of air

cooling the heat of his strides

as he swaggers sweetly

while the sound crashes on a shoreline

where he stands with legs firm

and scars from travel

mixed with blood

on the letter of his face.

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