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Jazz Poetry

Untitled

By Published: March 11, 2007
Untitled

Last night I dreamt that Hargrove died.
A man I had never met,
a voice I had barely listened to,
had caused the moon to drop from the sky.
The screams that were produced in me
were an all encompassing wind.
The sky began to change color,
a bleeding red in the clouds
and an inconsistent yellow in the trees.
A majestic and delicate family member
had slipped into darkness.



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