The rhythm beat of sax floated
over from the canopied jazz club...

Ink seeps down, again,
Scratches, reflections, soap dust...

Only once, with little acclaim to
notoriety, symbolism or fame will...

Nightingales nuance
morning melodies for those...

I went to the station where the rain was
pouring, turbulent, seven years old...

West
It was the dust-clouded, sunset-orange...

There is something I cannot mistake in
the sentimental shimmer of four walls...

Hello, everyone.
You can call me Charlie...

I held your hair when you painted the sink with
Vodka-flavoured sick, and tucked you in...

Back down South, where you grew up on Bible
and cattle ranching was where we were at our best...

I walked you home, one last time,
we stopped at the gate. I remembered...

Teardrop (by Massive Attack)
The way you pursed your lips when I left...