He sits on her tombstone,
wishing
for a time when this didn't bother him.
As the horizon sucks up
the sunglow,
he is beginning to see his breath mingle
with the nebulous
night
sky. Burnished leaves gather
on her grave, rise and
fall
like spirits coming out and pushing
back in. A slow
melancholic
warble travels deep from the gut
of a bird above him, a
soulful saxophone
player, backup to the blues
in his heart. He hops
down and drives
back to town, his place in an obscure
nook of
apartments. Checks his
mailbox, fumbles for keys, pulls off
his
clothes, and falls into bed.
Somewhere a deep murmur
resounds, like the
tone of a sweet
saxophone, or the whisper of a
bird.