April 23rd

for Chase

Go on and squeal your baby
saxophone, swing like you be flat.
Cleaning and clicking
screaming and kicking,
wedge wood in, a sting
and then salt.

Go and split your tongue
in two, that's where
the music pours out. Music thin
pours out like fine sand
fine sound and sticks in
damp gaps between fingers
and the sliver of your gearwork.

I have a day of yours, baby
saxophone fucker, when I
drew cows and took off my shirt, let
your saxophone wail and your
northern heart fail but
I was there
a smudge in the groove.

Above the machinery and up
to the throat, a film unrolls
from your two tongues.
I'm glad to know you
couldn't tear me out.