Can I show you a color? My finger frost-bitten as I dialed your number. My slipping sneakers thanked nature for trees that grow in shale,
4:04am and through my window-wall twelve lights bleat. They’re not for me but for insomniacs who walk not watch T.V. I stare at the silent
Morello shuffles to the left of Brubeck’s punches, clipped, in five. Unnoticed, Eugene drones a woody tonic Desmond playfully laments; fluid phrases skirting belly punches.
“There will be time,” the poet once said, “for all the works…” and I believe him when confronted with you — All energy and motion,