(no subject)

Blues 5-For Amy

There is a voice that howls among the horns
more brazen, that among the strings sings clear
along their line. Sometimes, you stop and hear
a music that is both the rose and thorn

the light and dark, the clear air and the smoke,
the silk and rasp. And you cannot divide
one from the other. Each one nests inside
that voice, inhabits it. It wears their yoke

is hurt by both the innocence and guilt
and has them as its essence. So be glad
you got to hear that music, and be sad
when the musician dies. When flowers wilt

we do not blame them. Listen to each song
- she lives in those, whatever else was wrong.