In The Rhythmic Silence

 It’s three in the morning                    
                                                                and Eugene
                insists we listen to                                jazz

in electric atmosphere.                        Storm centers hum
he avows.             
                                                I state that gypsies control
woodwinds.                          

A lost soul moves
from table to table                              plays the minor
                                                accordion.   

                                In the rafters of our actions
the sun struggles.                  And you smile

when rain begins to descend.             The orchestra is awake.