Monday, November 19, 2007
Of all his music papa played Mexicali Rose the very best.
Now the saxophone lies on a high shelf in the dark of the closet.
The last notes are departed, the reed split, the keys are stuck in old times.
Yet, I sometimes hear those slurred notes in the wind, in the wide cave of night.
Someday he'll take it up again, and then every earthly thing will change.
And all my dreams will be aroused to his slow music, a long lost voice.