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