The crowd, a mass of willing flesh,
absorb the fire of his sound.
Their greed is unsatisfied, unquenched,
burning with the blood of dance;
it warms cool air.
The man with great voice tastes his words,
releasing thoughts from corners and
shadows, spreading the jazz, bandaging
the hurt in the crowd.
Passionate flames of night drip like
frontons weeping from a days passing sun,
as hands gather the mood of night
into a basket full of fallen stars.
Roger Singer 