CODA: A Poem
The fit seizes meI drift tearing sound of shot silk plosions below. Gray sun changes to pale yellow wash. Milt bops. Duke downshifts. Bessie kneels from midnight to sun in golden chains. Thin hipped, thin lipped, you come trailing your bluest India, weeping to any night switchman, tickling his crotch Sex, you sing, is just …