Jazz Bad Enough to Write About

The white alto player, “cerebral” and “lyrical,”
Loosens the blues, let’s them hang in the air.
He circles and sings and scratches the strings of his hair, grimacing,
Prostrate to the divine,
As dangling wounds of light
Catch sound in airtight drums,
And echoing through the combo,
Called-up spirits are contained
In the silence of the crowd.