ISSUE: Summer 1980
The nose
of an oboe
of an oboe
a wedge of light
through an open door
darkness
pried apart
I walk through
the residential night
a kind
of breathing
voices
of houses
the street
a patient silence
and that long, thin
reed of music
a stranger
I nod to
fingers pigeoned
in front pockets
elbows flapping
as though
it were
my song.
