Tight eyed in low light
the room bops the disc spins
the corners curl upward on parted lips
loose-necked the head swims
one hand, one wrist and one forearm held
at the height of the lowest true rib
you could trace a line from the elbow
to the middle finger tip
and call it
the only straight thing in the room
and everything's in shades of woodgrain
and you could scream from the pit of your lungs
but no cry of ill or of passion
can slide past the piano, the brass, the bass, the drums
and I'd only burble a reply if it did so tight eyed in low light
the body bops in ever decreasing circles and the trumpet warbles
'til the sunrise sends me to sleep.
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