AT THE TOP

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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s