The legends and contours of every line,
Of our stories of who begat whom,
And as phrases part or combine.
A line between what’s open and shut.
Above a shivering reed that mourns
What never made the cut.
Of power knows always what’s true.
Against the grain, again the flair
Among a jazz’s daring few
Delight in playing face to face
For a line that steadies as it floats,
Without a theory or a base,
Holding what we hold and not to fear
Where our history clashes or jars
And in lines unsymmetrical to the ear
Deep reasonings of a different lore.
Of any middle ground or overlap
Yet listening as never before –
No more –
Just hunched jazzmen so engrossed
Other’s chance outleap and reach
Of friendship at its utmost.
And no one owns the chorus or break.
At Madam Jazz’s beck and call.
For nothing but the music’s sake.