ISSUE: Winter 2014
It hit me in a noisy bistro—
the muted frequency—
Jimmy Cobb’s brushes were fine sand
blowing over glass—
into a crack of wind-funnel—
slow and strange Count Basie said—
not like the frantic bebop on-the-road,
it should be passé now
but the austere, wavering
alienated half-valves
needled a bridge between two boroughs.
Glasses clink with mediocre wines,
plates of poached salmon blur.