for Lukas Ligeti

The sound of jazz as Africa
Does it, patterns of time
Like textiles, printed with brash

Colors, villages and jungles
Pressed together, the pull
Of outright funk

Like a hurricane storm
Precision of the beat so exact
It alters in the playing

Like an atom losing protons
Becoming one with others
Through the music

We become one with Africa,
For the time, time of patterns
Dim but silvery in the mist