Perhaps it’s not the way
Satchmo’s horn is an angle
of light—the bell
raised to heaven—or
the way Lucille smiles
her approval, leans back
into the space
meant for music. Notice
the pyramids, the Sphinx
in the ancient distance,
& thanks to the illusion
of the capture, its stone lips
seem poised to kiss
Louie’s hands, a blessing
of the highest calling. Yes,
love can be measured
breath, a divining rod
w/valve & gleam,
(around Lucille’s neck, binoculars?)
a note to sift the sand.
from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library
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on behalf of Persea Books.
