Voices seduce by harshness in the dark.
Something of silk, but something too of nails.
Threat of the freighter with its bloodblack sails,
between the songs. A casual remark

might cost you much if singers take offense.
They pardon less than poets do; their rhymes
and tunes together crystallize your crimes
so do not cross them. Music rhythmic tense

zigzags across the keys; it’s barrelhouse
or ragtime; almost Chopin for a while.
And then she laughs a sharp. The toothy smile
not insincere but mocking. She’ll arouse

your lust or grief a second then move on.
Music that tugs your heart most when it’s gone.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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