The
last gasp of autumn
Soughs
off into rhythmic
Whining
scraped from a dawn
Stretched
taut as night's edge.
The wind's
teeth are chattering
Slow
staccato passages
That
beg for contrapuntal bass:
But winter
is still foot-weary
Uneasy
in its pipes:
You can
hear the rustle
Of foxed
blue-note scores,
Sense
it tuning through assonance
To a
timbre unmarred by reason.
At least
this business of meter
Is nearing
a close:
It's
all I can do to keep my hands
Off the
saxophone.