Fallen open
pages sway, disarray, play with urchin wind
I hear their duet, and my joining hum releases
quiet laughter
A circling jazz, art’s heartbeat,
wild wind’s symphony

Craig Brandis

Does it matter how things come into the world? This poem? This heartbeat?

A street puts on a winter coat of snow. A gravel truck spreads its grey afterthought and growls home to sleep with its disciples.

A storm dreams in tight overlapping cylinders.

Sonny Rollins the great jazz artist
says he has one good idea a night.

Does it matter where things circle before they land?

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