Jazz

Never before did slow death
call more urgently than tonight;
trumpets and fireflies
blow their crispy hornets wind
with flying ants foreseeing
the next coming of dark rain.

I am the predictor of all things
that will fall and come to an end.

Old time jazz
breaks battered windows.




Poetry by Bob
Read 577 times
Written on 2007-08-25 at 18:15

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