Shadowed images crowd deep into him
releasing the engine of his drive;
rough breathing scrambles
onto walls of dreams where innocence
covers sin
His jazz is wind. A coursing of multiple
gusts turns heads while capturing idle thoughts.
He stirs under covers of
restless sleep. Nightmares call him by name.
A cutting moon drifts layers of silver over him.
He feels sound, echoes of song move
his lips.
Veils of memories, voices drying on the line
lift from the pillow. He breathes
youth. The ease of summer is full. Without regrets
music gives him her heart.
Roger Singer 