Charles F. Thielman
4960 Parsons Ave.
City night waving a calico flag, jazz bass thrumming guttural songs of love.
Your shadow crosses a mural
as weekend headlights sweep past lounge doors, guitar picking through
what aches note to sharp note near midnight’s river, ribs like tuning forks touching bridge railing. Waves meeting
undertow as grief splays its wings open above unlit candles. You could carry
a crucifix, ward off inhaled thorns,
avoid grasping chain link fence, syllables of your spine forming in an American sea of sounds.
Horizons composed of mirages, trinities genuflecting on ice
as the rebirth of wonder
skates past the truncated ballets of caustic reason. City night snapping thin bones
while running a gauntlet of echoes. Moonlight bisects spotlights,
spills over the dry gutters
of city knuckles wrapped around the necks of bottles, jazz bass thrumming guttural songs of love.