The sun rises softly in Harlem morning vibraphone beats of heroin hearts and hard whiskey pooled in tired eyes all healed by the wounding cure of night, by streetlight’s shadow cast on tinny altos and lonesome tenors; they cry the sunrise for hearts they knew, sing the only way they remember and fast brass hands pass strands of truth we drink, sink in angry quicksand from the Storyville swamp but riffs in our veins heal pains sealed in and we think back in the backs of taxis a whisper, dreamers shut their eyes with strings of things to come in sunrise.
Reason for writing:
The spirit of jazz: the search...which is the same spirit we find in poetry...
Birth sign: Not entered
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