THE GARDEN OF SKIN

An over wind pushed up a black

shirt collar; his shoes form a bond

with wet sidewalks.

 

His eyes absorb the night,

like a hawk searching the land.

 

Lines of street lights step him

from one circle to the next,

where he slides through shadows

with cool his face.

 

The sky broods over his

shoulders and unshaven soul.

 

The filtering of jazz seeps from open doors,

mixing an aroma of smoke and whiskey,

watering the garden of his skin

with the blood of sound.

 

 

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