, , ,

She opens her book and

looks across her clean china

cup and swirling cafenetik stripes.

The moisture in the air is

making the words blurry and she

has trouble seeing, until she,

from across the world, sees a

man who is painting a million roses

onto new cups.  He can’t look back,

but he is singing and his voice is

like a trumpet, alert and formed through

eons of human culture.  What does his jazz tell

her?  How many miles do the

notes move her?  Do they make his

paintings bloom?