IN THE SMALL HOURS
Blue diaphane, tobacco smoke Serpentine on wet film
and wood glaze, Mutes chrome, wreathes velvet drapes, Dims the cave of mirrors. Ghost fingers Comb seaweed hair,
stroke acquamarine veins Of marooned mariners, captives Of Circe's sultry notes. The barman Dispenses igneous potions
? Somnabulist, the band plays on.
Cocktail mixer, silvery fish Dances for limpet clients. Applause is steeped
in lassitude, Tangled in webs of lovers' whispers And artful eyelash of the androgynous. The hovering notes caress
the night Mellowed deep indigo still they play.
Departures linger. Absences do not Deplete the tavern. They
hang over the haze As exhalations from receded shores. Soon, Night repossesses the silence, but till dawn The notes
hold sway, smoky Epiphanies, possessive of the hours.
This music's plaint forgives, redeems The deafness of
the world. Night turns Homewards, sheathed in notes of solace, pleats The broken silence of the heart.
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