Real time straight jazz
curved the room.
Its ribbons of play formed justice
to notes,
releasing streams of fever.
Unconnected sounds rush over
a landscape of faces
and whispering fingers.
The pulse of breathing
mists the windows
as dancers and spirits of long nights
course their path to dawn.
Red dusted words
lip from his mouth,
falling out, tumbling,
evolving into the salt of fullness,
a flavor unique to
his sweat.
Roger Singer 