He belongs to the night people;
stories without legs and fast rooms
with slow talk. His music is the jazz
that drowns out the guilt while
overpowering the need for more.
His words are like sledgehammers,
crushing the crystal while sharp edges
rub the skin of your listening.
Sleep is an intrusion to the breathing
of his thoughts. He wakes up late,
encouraging evening to descend.
He pulls out the aroma from the
passion of music, undertaking the
overparts while creating the complete.