blackbird online journal spring 2002 vol.1 no. 1

POETRY

T. R. HUMMER | For Dancers Only

Le Jazz Hot

The finger of God comes down like whatever you care to call it—
Storm, or flame, or a chemical bolt of indifference—
What counts is the gesture, the color of light, the scar.
A sharkskin suit and wingtips in the closet.
A garter-belt and a condom in the bureau drawer.
Conditions keep changing, one moment all essence,
The next all shit, and everything in between.
The snapshot on the table is heartless; you see in the eyes
Of the woman that she knows what ending means.
Closure is a crack in the chest like a rim-shot,
Syncopation of stop-time, a diminished chord in the brain. 

next

return to top