Old bus receipt, we boot the hills at dusk
A lonely photograph home on the desk
She waves slowly and marches in reverse
Her damage done; the pounding in my head
Intangible – record new document
When wined-up ghosts fly forth from head to foe
My eyes don’t meet their shifty cocaine gaze
They chase their trains and say “I am the King.”
Horn ornaments hang round a winding tree
His jazzy vinyl tablet is a birth
Trumping out the snows, yet wandering lust
This frosted over Charlie Parker night.
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