This wanderer’s fantasy, outlined in the vague blues
and untended dust of a century gone,
swings back and forth, arching over notes
this time no longer plays. Stolen from
the edge of a playwright’s lapel, claret disharmony
quarries canyons into a dissident desert
of chords that wring meaning from each rhyme,
words so much meat, prized
for their congruency. I want my music to strike
something, anything, to puzzle out my mood,
fluff varnished wings and settle just out of reach,
just far enough to wonder.














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