Jazz
       

       At long loving last, maybe I understand.
  
       After
       spritzers of cologne and perfume,
       and phantom sounds in another room,
       the echoing face in the window pane,
       tongue tipped taste of gin and vermouth,
       and the stroke of fingers through memory
 
       comes
       the smell of neck, belly, and hips,
       the parting sound of arriving lips,
       a filament hair clinging with sweat,
       the salt gathered wet beneath your breasts,
       the clasp of my hands holding your wrists,
 
       a ready mix
       of want and do,
       lingering horns
       in a steady groove,
       a beautiful beating
       that drums the truth.




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