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Kinda Blue

ISSUE:  Winter 2014

It hit me in a noisy bistro—

the muted frequency—
Jimmy Cobb’s brushes were fine sand

blowing over glass—
into a crack of wind-funnel—

slow and strange Count Basie said—
not like the frantic bebop on-the-road,

it should be passé now
but the austere, wavering

alienated half-valves
needled a bridge between two boroughs.

Glasses clink with mediocre wines,
plates of poached salmon blur.


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