The reverent miscue of keys,
the rain-kissed ethereal tangles
of notes, bleeding from side-glance cellars,
waiting at our rabbit-holes,
our imperial stairwells,
breeds an ecstasy of unknowing.

It is the beauty of misfits,
of exhaustible chance: moments
that live and die within
expression- the salt
of a sheltered tear.

Love of punctured melodies
is the descent of a fallen eyelash:
the madness of wanting to stay,
to exist separate of consequential
beauty, and maybe to just
stand in the rain, rendered
absent to everything but
jazz bar anomalies
and know the sound alone
is enough for me.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s