The mouth of the saxophone
is the belly of the player
the bones of the player
the veins of the player
the feet feeling the earth
revert the vibrations
like an oscillator
you should see the waves
in the air, in the drinks
when Mass plays his bass
it's like the birth of a star,
a galaxy, the black hole
of a dying star being sucked into nothing
it's the streets of summer
the naked children running
under the shower of fire plugs opened
screeching with pleasure
the mothers upstairs in the rooms
like furnaces-the nights under covers
of cotton with men, husbands that make it
all right for a while
no thoughts of loss, of those missing
too soon
the rhythm is right and wild
like someone flying from the roof
to surrender