SLOW MOVING

The walls move in

on him,

pressing out the vintage

of his flavor,

forcing a banquet of

jazz

into drunken lazy air

where lipstick releases

secrets

and gin holds no lies

as the music burns

through the smoke

of last night

 

while

morning slaps the creases

of a sun

between chairs

and over faded curtains

as the yellow lays long on

sawdust floors

where napkins possess

wrong numbers

and names

 

while on a shadowed gray

stage

the trumpet man

blows his gold into a

stream of wet sounds

where dreams stick to

pillows

and sheets

as they hold the flesh of

lovers and friends

under stars of a music

that cuts to the

face of hearts.

 

 

 

 

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