Two Jazz Poems I. I think about I think about the hours of practice, those monkish solitudes, that climbing sort of prayer, and how, in time, their notes and scales will live within the fingers. I think about the clapboard churches, the black sweat on a preacher’s brow, the shouts of flattened fifths and sevenths. I know too there are colder spaces, indifferent galaxies that wheel. I’m told that, given long enough, we all rejoin the stars. Theology is music almost. It has the same abstraction and atheism is no less a cosmic…
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