Jazz Girl

Do you think you can start a fire

With all that intensity.

I write my lyrics all angsty blues

Mixing desire into the deal;

I can, from my hideout, resemble a still life:

A cherry tree on a white mountain

A silver scrap of the moon,

A hint of the skies.

The monk's lady was a jazz girl, wasn't she?

A festival, a piece of fantasia if you will.

The first contact, a pineapple yellow and green.

My mouth, an orchard where there was only ice.

Stay still.