The three-note rhythmic pattern
of your glance gave me hope
for the future of music
as an emotional diversion.
It’s said that the tongue
of the humpback whale intones
sorrow when sunlight withdraws
from his skin, that the daily
devotions of razorback clams
damn the orgies of oil spills
intoxicating the water.
You can make a map of me
without straight pins this time:
I promise to sit still. You can trace
the topography of my seabed,
mark where the waves crash
over my shore. The liquor’s worn off
and the acoustics have softened
to silence, which serves no god
save its own half-bastard son.
As it turns out, sex is an island
mirage. Attraction a matter
of opinion. You take your glance
away. Your three notes play
in the space of two: the melodic triad
funk dispels all doubt.
I allow myself melancholy,
divulge my dreams
to another street musician.
He listens, lays his sax down,
then says something
true about the sea.