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.
Roger Singer 