Scared boy， he even fled a cloud
reminding him of what might happen
when his father returned from sea，
wasted， to find him perhaps again
locked out in the cold， waiting
for other drinkers to come home
（his mother， her lover）——the catalysis
of routine violence passing close
like a storm cloud insisting rain；
until the rain did fall
and the father left， returning though
once with a clarinet . . .
And when the cloud came back
in the sound of a memory
the boy had grown， had learned
to let it swell into the note
he now holds in me
as a laser reads his tone
mastered for fidelity——
sweet prismatic splinter and
swing， a double-timing scrape
aiming for my ear
alone in a rented chamber.
Nowhere，
and I'm with him，
fully in tune as if he stood
hot before me， his life
seeming no more dear to him
than the sax he hawked
for any kind of syrup
he hoped might creep into his heart
like fucked-up love that felt like love
in the belly meadow warmth of his measured joy.
Hungry Art， Art of wind，
of lips upon the reed；
Art of blue， foolish Art，
would you be so nice to come home to？——
Bragging his genius
for a time turned rancid in San Quentin，
swaggering with a ripped-off thuggery honor
and sick with the terror of not seeming criminal . . .
White man junky thief
whose skin glowed narco-green
with the sound of Keats
amped through Pound
I repeat his name
jacked-in to the straight
blowing of a life
clarifying
like butter over flame：
what's home， where's harm；
how to fix； how praise——
Lover， come back to me.
Why are we afraid？