(And I,
I am no longer of that world)Naked, he lies in the blinded roomchainsmoking, cradled by drugs, by jazzas never by any lover's cradling flesh.
Miles Davis coolly blows for him:
O pena negra, sensual Flamenco blues;the red clay foxfire voice of Lady Day(lady of the pure black magnolias)sobsings her sorrow and loss and fare you well,dryweeps the pain his treacherous jailershave released him from for a while.
His fears and his unfinished selfawait him down in the anywhere streets.
He hides on the dark side of the moon,takes refuge in a stained-glass cell,flies to a clockless country of crystal.
Only the ghost of Lady Day knows wherehe is. Only the music. And he swingsoh swings: beyond complete immortal now.
