Nympheas

In the gallery I was not alone.
I was touched deep, deep,
had water lilies laid upon my new eyes,
had portions of my soul set aside
in brilliant corners.
Dark, darkwhiskey neat,
that burns in the belly,
that makes light in a cold train,
that goes on for miles,
talking to a waitress,
fingering the mouthpiece,
straight, no chaser,
like Mingus Bird, smooth,
smooth, those green dolphin shades
of shorter saxaphones
and fountains of clarinets.
Easy does it, easy,
like a Divine One
on a scat dive in the Five Spot.

I was not alone,
I was out there, elsewhere
with a monk who danced in brilliant corners,
with melting clocks and golden tramps
in Parrish blue, mathematical ribbons of faces,
a jungle flower behind my ear,
playing with tigers, playing with matches,
playing in 6/8 time until
the sunlight left a certain leaf,
so I could believe in the Lost One,
Perdido, I could believe in Spain,
in lettered subways
and poplars in a row
on the banks of the Epte.

In the gallery I was not alone.
I was lost in a garden in Giverny,
had water lilies laid upon my new eyes,
had portions of my soul set aside
in brilliant corners,
brilliant.

for K.L. Hill