A thickness of quiet pulled

the air into slow where it

begged to be filled.

A big muddy of thoughts spread

over the crowd, like the water

they were; wet collars, sweaty palms.


A low tide of moving hands

struck a line of strings,

releasing songs too heavy for corners,

to bright to hide.


The jazz has stolen him. A wall of faces

protects the gold within his fingers.

All songs have felt the travel of his hands;

he is the ebb and flow, the start without finish.














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