TWO POEMS
by Cutter Streeby
JAZZ FUGUE
Miles found tracer-round melodies in the blood of Moon Dreams,
a cadence where her voice plays
like a jazz pamphlet
his trumpet was crunching gravel that followed my feet, raising an army of ghost-dancers.
loaded F minor bullets.
she sang a guerrilla war against the darkness that made us
muted trumpet barrels trilling before
a young army. my axe blasted cool-tones into a creosote sky where
she is a Harlem dancer. hard-up.
a gauntlet of street light and
fucking or fighting were hymns to the same thing,
shooting the silence of fog with
the bow of her hips. a peace treaty stripping me of scars
with passion smoother than any Kind of Blue
I remembered when music
memory, like broken-time sax solos
drifted through me and returned into the night
Syncopated.
Syncopated.
Syncopated.