Soul's Hand

When you find another anthem,

you take it back over all the

bus routes, hallways and parks

that salt & that pepper your years,

each having previously held

warm verses and grooves of their own.


You walk back.

You re-rhythmically

re-mythologize the

steps to the church

and the steeple.

The prayer of her knee highs

and the black

embankments of

her hair.


The people on the bus and

the ones that make up the crowd.

You’ve seen most of it before,

but never to Miles or Betty Davis.

Never to Muddy, King, or Wolf.


People as convoluted as they become, are

all at once redeemable, by a perfect soundtrack.


A Kaleidoscope, wringing out the stories

in their eyes and perks; shearing off

lines of nuance.  Carving another edge.


The frenetic bird-mimicry

& melting of stuffy snow glazed people.

The dance of the chilled and iced.

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