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T. R. HUMMER | For Dancers Only
Le Jazz Hot
The finger of God comes down like whatever you care
to call it—
Storm, or flame, or a chemical bolt of indifference—
What counts is the gesture, the color of light, the scar.
A sharkskin suit and wingtips in the closet.
A garter-belt and a condom in the bureau drawer.
Conditions keep changing, one moment all essence,
The next all shit, and everything in between.
The snapshot on the table is heartless; you see in the eyes
Of the woman that she knows what ending means.
Closure is a crack in the chest like a rim-shot,
Syncopation of stop-time, a diminished chord in the brain. 
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