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.

8 thoughts on “Ghazal

  1. i like. a lot.

    stanza 2 an­swer: a tsunami.

    re­ally, this poem just made my morn­ing. thank you adam.

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