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.


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