Her staccato shoulder raised, shifted,
grappled by a stranger's hands,
Her eyes two slim and subtle
wounds like music notes,
and you wonder why they dim the lights
and let the saxophone blurt out its high-pitched
out of air gasp.
Your arms are tilted
branches too tranquil
for a bird's nest
but you sway quiet with the glass
in your hand like a guitar
and gulp this rhythm back
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