by Michael Keshigian

    We watch them gig
    in the pit
    playing funky jazz licks
    in modal timbres
    makes me squirm.

    I say
    let’s blow this joint
    when this babe be-bops from behind
    hands in my hair
    says we can really groove.

    I dance through the night
    till light
    cuts a ray
    through her ceramic face

    cracking beauty
    into puzzle fragments.
    she starts to sing
    the blues.

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