Moscow Never Sleeps

Nothing to second guess
my future narratives
over a breathless wind
of snow kisses
as a guest of childhood
slides by spared canals
over the Moskva river.

Here on gritty sidewalks
dusted with flakes,
veterans from the war
hobble to warm themselves
by acrid fires.

A young poet and musician
with a somnambulist’s dream
carries a pawned sax
gloved in a nocturnal daze
with his sheltered blues
heard on the BBC.

He stops by night haunts,
hiding from grandma
like a lost gull from the river
protected by liquid silence,
hearing woodwinds.

He hides in a darkened club
with a cold flashlight
to jam even with a red eye.
Improvisation breaks out,
shielding all sights
by the lidless door.

Budding sounds
shine higher
over augmented notes
from unfinished songs.

Cold fingers open me up
to the medium of jazz
on a furtive hour
tangled by mystery
embedded on black lips
burning like piles
of live charcoal.