Logic of the Saxophone

latticework climbing up the blinds
their shadow, behind tooth gapped panes
late summer sun

cemetery saxifrage; shamans shuffle up
up the brickwork, step by step
wailing like dead sirens as they go

Marshall Allen must be a hundred now
if he's a day, but I heard him blowing
last night at the Rotunda

sweet alto, then in repose
fluting in orbit contact Jupiter
no ideas but in sounds

sweet alto, then in response
satellites over the Mongol steppes
the rhythm, the rhythm

horsemen drum on the silk road
their shadow thunder on the brick
late summer, crisp leaves on the Belgian block