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.
Somewhere
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.