from After the Chinese

Bill Corbett Reading “Back and Forth”

John Lewis, poet of the keyboard dead. Corbett’s frame a garage enough to store a lake surface or skyscraper. Chop herbs mix mustard clouds stunted green stalks dark chocolate earth. Friends. Family. Foe. Drink. Talk. Walks. The world passes through him. He opens his mouth leaves shake, bees gather honey become trapped in nectar. Who brushes unbroken summer with pen and notebook. Each consonant and vowel wrung for all it’s worth. His voice sails above the scales! If he tried jazz I know he’d be Master of Sound.