The tumblers
of the day
turned down
locked out
a yellow sun
pushed up
and out
by hounds
howling at
a smiling
round moon
with a cheesy
smile smiling
into a crowd
rightly smelling
the jazz
splashing fast
over them
like rain
of summer
warm with wet
finding faces
and staining
forever
their insides
believing in
the sound.
Roger Singer 