Sam Silva


We still make jazz, we mad blind workers
of words and sex
of passion and cathedrals
layered in wood
and bled onto a canvass

....we still...stupefy
in that drugged dumb glare
of our hearts...and there is still
fine jazz
piped in this time
on lullaby laptops...we babes
of two a.m.

I hear the dusty drum roll
done down then to brushes
or synthesized near a horn

...and I pride myself
on the holes in my jacket

my kisses are toothless now
but worshipful!

My tongue takes his cue
from the heat of your redness
and my fire burns low
till I feel what you have done

whether with the pure crush of paint that you layer
or the crush of my fingers
against your flanks

or in that private place where I pray
for your center...

Sam Silva © 2017