Heart for arts sake.


Demerara sugar bags
in a white sugar bowl,

a free paper napkin pre
folded by unseen hands

glares at me in the sunlight.

Two thirds of a glass
wet lipped with coke

and ice, a books index
of titles pinned open by

a thumb pressed between
pages and a finger placed

on a badly cracked spine.

So now my black writing sits
uncomfortably on ruled lines,

and the sound of jazz
is scratching at my head,

it could break the skin,
puncture the bone, reach

the brain, and still I'd be
none the wiser, none the

better. For being touched by
your art instead of your love

disarms the best of creation.


jgh(c)2008