Dark corners carry whispers on webs
spent of usefulness.
Jazz fingers travel faster than his words.
Lightening pales to the strike
of his light;
the thunder of his past is written
from the dust on his shoes.
Move on river. Bargain the moon for space.
Ocean tides respect the pull he spreads;
the push and tumbling,
drowning and rising
and the sight of hungry hands.
He is the aroma of all things becoming one.
The jazz of his well overflows.
The wetness of long images
drip fluid hot from fingers
playing the burn.
A sweet pleasantness follows him.
Years of heads turning form great
waves behind him; the applause
reaches distant galaxies.
He is a cat. A prowler of music forests
yet tamed. Open souls are consumed
without resistance. He walks the confidence
others fail to own.
Motion serves him.
He follows only himself.