Jazz moon shines softly
in the ebony sky
The stars
notes on a staff
of telephone wires
Waiting to be played
by anyone looking up
My love and I walk
measure by measure
beat by beat
down discordant streets
The melody lies
beneath the surface
And we groove
to our own harmonies.
*
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen
