Tatum

In a room that speaks, listening to the way, am pulled out of sleep, whose is that tune, hear myself say, why the notes so crude, spaces stuck in between, eyes open hesitate, where have I been, Parks and sunny avenues, memories of that face, free of turpitude, wrapped in cotton sheets, I think of black lace, soft on thighs and knees, outside is a mature Yew, its canopy like a cradle, watch the way it moves, sometimes in the season, regard a branch shaken, still hear the sea, love marks my day.