Herbie Mann Comin' Home

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Were She Calypso

When the light from the street

Until then the dark

Thinking it the music

Without your eyes, the stepping

Were it only touch, only taste

What was dance to your simply moving

If the incipience of purblind handholds

Around all, incidentals partaking

For instance, a tennis ball

Was it white blouse on white chair

Just visibility, chance, would

Fields burning somewhere

Your name harvested, for a keychain,

The now city face during work hours

Bundling the years as a revisioned

The calendared night, all stubble burnt

If the acreage starlit, they've asked.



  1. TF, this is breath-taking in its visions, sublime in its wording and almost heartbreaking to its end. Your talent is beyond compare.

  2. Cher,

    I'm blushing! Stop it!

    Often, when I try for 'experiment' or 'innovation', I erase what I do and hide in a dark place.

    This one, in its differing kind of gaps, jigsawed together.

    How else to write about what it's trying to get at?