A Year of Poems – Day 312

Some nights the music flows
the trombone swings on its chariot,
skimming the stars then trailing through the sea.
Some days the bird nest is in a rocket engine
and the music practically writes itself
as the spheres of sky and earth
mingle in the mind and air.
Some afternoons the fans slice the air into a slow sludge,
but there is still a music in the faded color scheme
and the slow dance of the fan.
Some nights the music falls;
it disappears in a fumbling silence,
or so it seems till I remember how to hum.


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