by Roger Singer
Her rhythms are held by open
waves of blue strength.
Faces cool under a crescent moon.
The insides of listeners turn red
with passion. The crowd reaches
for her flavor.
Words birth from her as the children
of sound. Fingers tap to the
Breathing she releases.
Ghost voices circle her. An orchard
of ripeness blossoms from the
place she holds.
Ownership fails at the flowing
of her dress.
Forests of shadows sing through her.
She is never lonely.
Pianos weep at her finish.