Deep, deep

The legends and contours of every line,

Tune womb

Of our stories of who begat whom,

And as phrases part or combine.


So fine

A line between what’s open and shut.

Proud horns

Above a shivering reed that mourns

What never made the cut.


Power’s glut

Of power knows always what’s true.


Against the grain, again the flair

Among a jazz’s daring few


Some new

Delight in playing face to face

Grace notes

For a line that steadies as it floats,

Without a theory or a base,


Shared space

Holding what we hold and not to fear

Those bars

Where our history clashes or jars

And in lines unsymmetrical to the ear


Still hear

Deep reasonings of a different lore.

No map

Of any middle ground or overlap

Yet listening as never before –


No more –

Just hunched jazzmen  so engrossed

In each

Other’s chance outleap and reach

Of friendship at its utmost.


No host

And no one owns the chorus or break.

Guests all

At Madam Jazz’s beck and call.

For nothing but the music’s sake.