what I hear inside my head.
My imagination flutters like a swallow,
and cries like a hungry baby.
I sit and play the saxophone
in self-contemplation. The mirror
tells the truth, but not enough
to merit constant thought.
I am folding inward over and over.
Six inches of words
and I am betrayed, hypnotized
into believing I achieved
all there is to achieve in this art form.
So, I start a new contemplation
of the swallow, and I listen to fragmented
phrases, read life studies,
and notebooks, of his memoirs,
the flowers that sustain all of earth.