Scared boy， he even fled a cloud

    reminding him of what might happen

    when his father returned from sea，

    wasted， to find him perhaps again

    locked out in the cold， waiting

    for other drinkers to come home

    （his mother， her lover）——the catalysis

    of routine violence passing close

    like a storm cloud insisting rain；

    until the rain did fall

    and the father left， returning though

    once with a clarinet . . .

    And when the cloud came back

    in the sound of a memory

    the boy had grown， had learned

    to let it swell into the note

    he now holds in me

    as a laser reads his tone

    mastered for fidelity——

    sweet prismatic splinter and

    swing， a double-timing scrape

    aiming for my ear

    alone in a rented chamber.

    Nowhere，

    and I'm with him，

    fully in tune as if he stood

    hot before me， his life

    seeming no more dear to him

    than the sax he hawked

    for any kind of syrup

    he hoped might creep into his heart

    like fucked-up love that felt like love

    in the belly meadow warmth of his measured joy.

    Hungry Art， Art of wind，

    of lips upon the reed；

    Art of blue， foolish Art，

    would you be so nice to come home to？——

    Bragging his genius

    for a time turned rancid in San Quentin，

    swaggering with a ripped-off thuggery honor

    and sick with the terror of not seeming criminal . . .

    White man junky thief

    whose skin glowed narco-green

    with the sound of Keats

    amped through Pound

    I repeat his name

    jacked-in to the straight

    blowing of a life

    clarifying

    like butter over flame：

    what's home， where's harm；

    how to fix； how praise——

    Lover， come back to me.

    Why are we afraid？