a puddle of light,
the drummer soft-strokes the skins
like a cheek. Delinquent notes jitter
above the piano and the singer bends
them against a grid of accidentals,
slip-sliding scales. A glissando of notes
slides to the floor.
A man looks up--
there is always someone to burn a hole
in the night. He eyes the singerís wet throat,
that flute of foregone conclusions.
There is always someone.
Possibilities slither across the silver smoke
and before the sax can blow
the bad news out of all proportion,
a pin drops through it and the room stills,
suddenly straddled by desire.