bebop apocalypse

5/17/12

The tenor group blows past my window

And along 52^nd St. seeking tomorrow.

I decide to follow them in search of true love,

Peering from behind newspaper stands and alleyways.

 

The sun has set but we continue on,

Past luthiers in their yellow windows,

Bifocaled and hunched over branches and curvatures

And strings of dense precision.

 

And in the darkness,

And trains blowing our tracks to Albany or the Louvre,

And the mad engineer, his eyes red from mystic destination,

And the satisfying sense of no where.

 

He unites the tunes

Of wheat fields and abandoned office buildings,

Whistling the days of vacant oblivion

When only melody will preside.