Poetry
Mark Lawrence
Untitled
The sun is coming through the window, it's just another day. So I go
underground. If you listen down the hall, a saxophone rings rhythm off
brick falls. A few dim lights shine behind rising smoke, floating
angels, from men dressed in suit coats and ties, and women with
elegant dresses, brilliant jewelry, their hair pulled up, revealing
necks and shoulders bare, smooth, and cleavage, breasts overpowering
with love where you would set your head. Some are dancing and the
saxophone is getting picked up by a stand up bass, then a cymbal, and
a snare drum. I'm smoking cigarettes and I'm looking up. In the midst
of Coltrane's dream, that's where I must be. All underneath a street
in Paris in a little Jazz club. I look upon the face of an angel, in
the smoke. The vibration of the music is so different under the city.
In cobblestone walls is where I've met you. Perhaps a prison or a
temple as far back as the tombs. Perhaps it is just this club, but
here we are and I remember no one but you. As far back as I know we
have loved dancing with one another, but for the life of me, I cannot
even remember dancing. I do not know your name this time around, nor
where you are from, or how old you are. I know only that we love
dance, close together, and that we've done it before.
This poem, of sorts, appeared in Church on Thursday, Issue #6, October 1996.
