I busted out my saxophone last night and played it for awhile. Since my guitar skill has plateaued for the time being, I thought tossing another instrument into the mix might increase my skill-​to-​hours-​practiced ratio. Since I have a tape deck now, I can listen to my blues method tapes that I’ve had for so long. My jaw and tongue and lips are sore. Oh yeah, gotta write a poem.

A bit on the ghazal. This one isn’t specifically erotic, but it might be sensual in the broadest terms.

The farmer is carrying a spade, a loaf
of bread and a face like limp stalks of celery.
An old dog follows.

If the world rests on the back of a giant turtle,
what does the turtle rest on? And what happens
when the turtle goes into its shell?

Shuffling cards, a husky saxophone, exhaust smoke;
incongruously, in my apartment. Two blocks away
a tattooed barista does her taxes.

Perpetual motion in stillness, three notes
on a blues scale and a picture of a jellyfish
in the ocean.

A blind woman on a bus knows her stop
by the play of sun and shade on her face. If she
sat in the other aisle, she’d ride for eternity.