Jazz is the Jagged Edge

Jazz is the jagged edge,
so give me the beautiful cloth
not for edges or beauties
but for threads making patterns
whose colors interplay to the cut-off sharp.

Building sweetly is rarely heard,
so give me dissonance that punctures
the dream ahead we make when behind is blind.
Hardly ever we see full into either,
and beauty is not completely born
yet of frailty something beautiful.

Arguers are never solved
so give me agreers who disagree,
revelers and punchy diggers
who regard the soft underbelly of pose
as a mother regards her child’s will.
They gently abuse armor to shreds
and fall tender at the tough tissue of heart.

Few things consist,
so let the contradictions praise the consistent.
The blind will tell colors in the night,
the deaf a timbre’s most subtle change of silence,
the mute what words we do not muscle out,
and the dead, dry bones moistened
by the first rain of fall.

Jazz is the jagged edge,
so give me the beautiful cloth
because the cloth is whole.
The ears do not hear
what the head’s second coming will sound
until the head is stated first
and the threads unraveled end to end.

I never fear abstractions.
I already know the truth.