I Spoke to you in Jazz
and that rhythm rushing
waterfall over notes
as though dust motes are trapped
in the chamber of women and men
moving across the aspect
Pick up a cigarette and light it. Blow down
memory’s streams. Ignite cognisance.
Become a wall between the philosophy
of vagrants and the sanctity of St Peter.
Judge. Then leave the crowded room.
A man watches you with a woman’s eyes.
In the infinity of common places,
we reach, touch with open hands.
A symbol should be placed at this exact
location on the road.
Then torn down by the wind, whose wisps
languish like stale relationships,
or fishing lines trolling every aspect of life–
reason in love with the quest for cause.