scribbles, scratches
Work on the novel has hit a moment of warp speed, which feels lovely. What has been brewing is spilling out at long last. At the same time, I still can’t help but write poems in my head. Here’s one.
There Will Never Be Another You
When you listen to Lester Young
there is a waiting for the big reveal that never comes
When you listen to Lester Young
sound spills and floats like ideas
from dreams in those first moments after waking
When you listen to Lester Young
loose secrets are passed about —
those secrets live somewhere
between giddy promise and sinking remorse
When you listen to Lester Young
every tilt back in a chair
brings views of blankets of stars being
endlessly whipped by in a deep plum sky
When you listen to Lester Young
longing is only for what has never been known
When you listen to Lester Young
the breaths that coat each note are bourbon
whispers fogging eardrums,
pleading to be understood
When you listen to Lester Young
think of me
•••⊗•••
xo
