at the coda jazz supper club san francisco
he runs away with bach’s little fugue
soughing to the fretless curve of hip and cello
and a man’s talking fingers
we haven’t a thing to do in the moment
except pine yes we do that with finesse
and we dance our own vernacular
me meaning to catch you falling anyway
it’s the eclipse festival palmer river
his strings are powered by a bike girl
standing before the sun in that way
you are a cut-out a blackened keyhole
a thing abandoned or missing
like when the moon takes a bite of the sun
throws a casual pall upon the earth
by the angle of your chin I can tell you’re gone again
and what of the weird gesturing
with his fingers backlit as they move?
there is a brightness to their periphery
that strange script a hybrid indefinable
like the unit of us
leaving the vic night market its gutter full of apples
bin of withered lettuce
me cycling ahead you lagging behind
