Quincy Troupe

we walk through a calligraphy of hats slicing off foreheads Ace-deuce cocked, they slant, razor sharp, clean through imagination, our Spirits knee-deep in what we have forgotten entrancing our bodies now to Dance, like

ice sheets sweep this slick mirrored dark place Space as keys that turn in tight, trigger Pain of situations Where we move ever so slowly So gently into time – traced agony The bright