the words weren't mine

Muz and Jan played a four hander as if
their lives depended on one another

usually so quick to discriminate
themselves this time they were got up as one
figure the third that causes and results
from revelatory adjacency

modest wigs oxblood frock coats and white hose
sort of out of sight with the sound in mind

they were sleeping with a woman each thought
more worth listening to than Michel even
though he was their angel of subtlety
and balm all one with the feverishness

a run of notes another of fortnights
not too far behind the next agency