When the brick work becomes
\nimportant, and then the wall, <\/p>\n
perhaps the river will help us,
\noffering its taut surface <\/p>\n
and mild depth, in the way
\nthat a horse so loves <\/p>\n
the alien taste of peppermint,
\nor molasses rubbed on the bit. <\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Perhaps the drummer, cymbals
\nparallel with the floor, hi-hat swishing,
\nleft leg tricking to the side to hit a rack
\nof bells. We\u2019d like to think his story linear,
\nthat we, too, could tap our fingers,
\npivot beat upon beat, run tippy-toe
\nacross the drum-skins, bass drum
\nproviding floorboarding. <\/p>\n
It\u2019s sometimes the bass-player.
\nHis braids pushed through the back band
\nof his baseball cap, moving his left hand
\nsmoothly up and down the neck
\nof the upright bass, fingers of the right hand
\nplucking\/stroking the strings,
\nnodding his head in time, moving
\nto the electric bass only to solo. Somehow
\nethereal for all it\u2019s in the bass clef,
\nunder-girding the plot, like a butterfly really,
\nit\u2019s electric-blue wings beating lazily,
\nbut one that\u2019s never been a caterpillar. <\/p>\n
It\u2019s usually the saxophonist, Chris Potter, As it is, after the drizzle, so Metheny, finally sitting, hunched over <\/p>\n On the day when the contrail was thin the heron\u2019s flight was large and steady split and torn, to wheel and topple, When what is inside the kestrel\u2019s head it might see the sky inside the glove, the skyline where the churches live, both bird and tree of the purpose of life. setting sun, who sees some movement curves from the wind and reaches out surface of the cafe table, scratches, and its lees down to the crashing floor. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Baptism When the brick work becomes important, and then the wall, perhaps the river will help us, offering its taut surface and mild depth, in the way that a horse so loves the alien taste of peppermint, or molasses rubbed on the bit.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":21,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[379,380],"tags":[388],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\nmoving arpeggios briskly over the audience,
\nflute on the encore \u2018Are you going
\nwith me\u2019, music from the 80\/81<\/em> album
\nwritten for Dewey Redman and the late
\nMichael Brecker, the coals of lineage
\npressed to Potter\u2019s lips by an angel. <\/p>\n
\nin the warm silence of a quarry
\novergrown with hazel and Himalayan
\nbalsam, the cataract falling down one corner,
\na jay flies to settle on a low branch followed,
\nas if mobbed, by a blackbird and a thrush.
\nA man standing as if quietened by the jay\u2019s gaze,<\/p>\n
\nthe acoustic guitar, quietened the audience
\nwith a medley of \u2018Ferry Cross the Mersey\u2019,
\n\u2018This is not America\u2019, \u2018Bright sized Life\u2019,
\nthe love theme from \u2018Cinema Paradiso\u2019. <\/p>\nOdessa<\/h5>\n
\nand strong, then thick and ragged, <\/p>\n
\nuntil mobbed by rook or crow, then <\/p>\n
\nwith its screeches dry and cold. <\/p>\n
\nis all it needs to tip and struggle on the jesses;<\/p>\n
\nthe kestrel\u2019s eye opened into flight, against <\/p>\n
\nwhere September squalls remind <\/p>\n
\nWhen the owl whose eyes dilate with <\/p>\n
\nin the grass, and opens wings with dusk, <\/p>\n
\nits feathered claws upon the polished <\/p>\n
\nscrabbles, sweeps the wine glass <\/p>\n