talk about it (27)

talk about it, the splendor

Never the language always the rhythm.

Always the beat, the song, the blood’s pulse,

the finger running, thrumming, toe knock knock

knocking against the seat in front, would

you stop, would you just stop. Ever

the nodding, catching the tune, sipping

the melody out of the jazz, sucking

the jazz out of the lyric, hearing

the joke in the shift in the lilt, ready

to laugh at it, ready to cry about it, hard,

heavy sobs, breath lost, sob muscles

essing the body. Never the words, or hardly

ever the words, because here come the waves,

the mountains, here the view of the bounce,

green in all directions and dun and pearl

and undulating marble mounding, squeezing

that space inside, mounting and

again then pushing it out, out, heaving,

hefting, helling, heavening. Again.