BRUBECK

West Coast sounds more downtown
Manhatten, like the rhythm of desperate
feet; like the cardiac murmur: red green; 
crowds pushing at the seams then 
released; the frisson of a pulse marking
time; the flourish of a horn weaving threads, 
through the brush stroke steady on the skin; 
the bustle of the sound; the movement of 
the crowd,  the rock ready jazz of their limbs. 
Body of the bodies of them all; busy 
with the business of the world; shoes on 
the sidewalk all marking time; sound along
the avenue walls; skipping to the regulated
beat of the endless procession of feet
and the weave and the rush where there's
never enough of the music of the madness
of the streets.

MILES

In some dark, cavernous club,
he puts his lips to brass
and plays a weaving sonorous
delight; smooth spread then
shuffled: musical card play;
we hear, we feel our fortune
rise and fall: some truth that's
ours beyond the scope of words;
he plays, we hear jazz feeling
out our dark: the lonely busy
primacy of sound.

RETIREMENT OF AN EXPLORER

It was quite a thing to be home,

where all was made to brace

against the gale; except his canvas

mind, that strained the anchor, and

breath that turned to water on the pane.

He had written books that tried to mirror

oceans; black ink could never

catch the monstrous deep. His maps

were celebrated, in safe places,

he saw the lines as nothing but deceit.

His body felt the gravitas of years

where he had once been lean and quick

to flight; the oyster world, that slid

into his soul; now deep discomfort

through his lonely nights.