Why Jazz

Why all that jazz?
Everyone asks, thinks
maybe it's a crutch,
but you have to listen
to understand that

when it swings mad
it's controlled wild,
screaming like loons
from the secret structure
of someone's imagination.
You get to go there, fly
down to it, sail across it,
lose yourself winging
your own dips
and graceful spins.
The cool liquid changes

when it cries soft
as yellow fog, curling
around memory. Ghosts
who usually live
in the next room
step in to hold you
faint as smoke, whisper
their stories one more

time you have to listen
to understand. It's a river.
It pulls you with tides,
and deep underneath
it's all blue, sad
in a minor way,
but enveloping as peace,
low as life.

You can stretch yourself
around it, let it move
your limbs, carry you
in a sway of somewhere
you've never been
but for that space
of song.