the blues' dense fog grounds notes the way a tiger treads on jungle carpets its quiet rage pulsates behind my eyes in the red ochre need and knead of love

each claw digs into chordal under growths to make each theme tear at the teal, taut vines of intervals

in its quest hunger bays at the night sky just loud enough to make the cool moon howl

Diane Stevenson Schmolka .

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