[Jeffrey]

post-rocksteady

The relentless crunch-skip of good skacore
binding me Odyssean to the mass
of warm flesh and fleet feet defying fact
of physics and laws of thought. Heorot
of the slick half-step. Brass instead of bronze
finding me Sirens to sing the refrain,
yelling in my ear and at the stage; sing,
O Muse, of the ranks of Kingston's sons.