Could it be, Bud
that in slow galvanized
fingers beauty seeped
into bop like Bird
weed and Diz clowned-
Sugar waltzing
back into dynamite,
sweetest left hook you
ever dug, baby;
could it violate violence
Bud, like Leadbelly’s
chaingang chuckle,
the candied yam
twelve string clutch
of all blues:
There’s no rain
anywhere, soft
enough for you.
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