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“34. There was jazz playing in a room away” in “Musing”
34.
There was jazz playing in a room away
And the lit margin of the hill rippled
In the night, and the dead chapel
Ruined on a cliff felt like dust.
Dionysius blew his horn till dawn
And the madness of midsummer had come
Nothing was really predictable
Ever, the secrets of love and state
Rifted over the rocks of the port. The winds
Blew off Africa: all the goats had gone
And the vineyards looked like graveyards
And empires, like lovers, slipped away.
In time blood and drum pound, the space of light
Casting across your neck as you sing.
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