Dag always seems like a place out of nowhere; a spot that has its own heartbeat, its own rhythm. There's a drummer over there, a guitar in the corner and a weird symphony that you can't shake loose once you hear it.  But it doesn't really exist.  Then again it does ... every time you look away there's a ghost swaying slowly ... making you move with the violin as the flute confuses you because it's not the jazz you expected at all.  It's Dag.

Mister Smith taught me:

Play with your words; let them sing -

Just don't let them go.

So I guess I won't. 

Even when I don't know what

The melody is.

But I know the song,

Because he sang it to me

With his deepest breath.

Somehow, the notes meshed ...

Friday's orchestra of one

Heard by everything. 

I dared sing along

Because he invited me

No punctuation

When I think of him,

I'm led to thoughts of others