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Jazz

the way the sax note splintered,
coughing, turning into the ash
that peeled up the leg of a
cigarette, like lace stockings –
an axe to my chest, when his
lips rest on the reed,
reading me, bleeding all over
the atmosphere, like a spilled
bottle of bourbon mixing
with the urban night lights
bright neon static and smokey
rain blurring my sight

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