you foolish too. think that only the ears hear? 
the heart wails through fingers dancing. on pedals 
leaning way back to slide. brass red extensions
massage oxygen leaving. the luggage of lungs 
soundtracks the block parties on golden streets
seraphim be throwing. on the eve of the apocalypse 
or the next morning or mourning. when the quiet comes
back home, those saints keep marching.
even when stars are falling on and on
from the sky