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all the silent parts? The on-looking, unspoken glances. Here comes the poem of you and me, a stink and frenzy of writing, ink dripping down walls from its dance. The saxophone is still part of this part of what I was already, jazz musician. Just another power tool you married. You danced because you needed to, did the sideline follies kick. Made them see the normal side of you. There are no fools in this, no dirty hands on your mind. These lights are perfect; these lights are pinging madly. Take two bows and show me again how you coaxed me to need you, how you pulled out all my hammers like jack rabbits out of shabby hats. Your love out performed any bad habit I ever had. You modified me with trust on paths of gentle feet. I never had a comeback line for any self hateful thing you exposed, but once the whole is divided the parts need names. Every time I blow a note you dance a little and pieces of my voice trail off. Millennia later, they pinball into poems, and the writer, the one you didn't marry, has to name each one.
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