Jazz Wafts

Jazz wafts
through the darkness
of the lake. . .
past hunched trees
and grass
like clumped rice,
tissue-paper clover,
past glazed sand
and gravel
in the road,
forgotten boulders,
past street lamps
and their pale
amber glow.
On a boulder
sits a bottle.
It asks for nothing,
gives nothing in return.
The blank hum of crickets.
“It so happens I am sick of being a man. . .”
I leave the bottle
         and walk on,
                 into the darkness. . .




Appeared in FIRE: No. 14 (Oxford, UK)

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