The blue notes come down when the sky deepens,
The intangible is lost at the stroke of night,
Vanishing all but the moon and our created things
Glowing, blurred, and bleary, our captive energy
Hissing against the empty increments of the moments,
The rest of the daily machinations,
The dimming of the acetylene.
A jagged shriek, a soughful, humid horn,
A quenchless cough and singing groan occupy
This unwound, ground-down lighted room
And escape like gas. Dissipation shimmers and shakes.
We stoke the fires of a sax solo,
We brush color into our faces.
The demons are now in the air,
By morning they will snake away.
