Last time I listened I turned thirty-six in Copenhagen celebrating among beer steins and students. Your notes capered strata of cirrus smoke until the last one planed across the room. You shook the spit out and walked past her self-composed design of longing. She glowed, an apple tree blossoming in moonlight, as if globes of notes had bubbled into her a yearning for you, your noise, that burble of husky bumblebees. You smiled and passed. This time at fifty from the balcony I watch you making bees in your gold meerschaum, that generosity of sound which she'd have mistaken into possession wanting what was already freely given, the love making, your sax leaving nothing left to play. |