His arms were roots,
thirsty for water;
its color and taste indifferent
to his lust.
His hair boasted unruliness,
dry and odd shaped, like unkempt
fields leaning from wild winds.
He disconnected himself, inventing sounds
from tears
while his skin was sore
from long work and seeing empty plates
and passing rocks that waited for
dashing dreams.
He knew his place.
The top of jazz.
Roger Singer 