Summer 1993 • Vol. XV No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1993 |

The Place the Musician Became a Bear on the Streets of a City Meant to Kill Him

      for Jim Pepper I think of the lush stillness of the end of a world, sung into place by singers and the rattle of turtles in the dark morning. When embers from the sacred middle are climbing out the other side of stars. When the moon has stompdanced with us from one horizon to the next, such a soft awakening. Our souls imitate lights in the Milky Way. We've always known where to go to become ourselves again in the human comedy. It's the how that baffles. A saxophone can complicate things. You knew this, as do all musicians when the walk becomes a necessary dance to fuel the fool heart. Or the single complicated human becomes a wave of humanness and forgets to be ashamed of making the wrong step. I'm talking about an early morning in Brooklyn, the streets the color of ashes, do you see the connection? It's not as if the stars forsake us. We forget about them. Or remake the pattern in a field of white crystal or of some other tricky

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      for Jim Pepper I think of the lush stillness of the end of a world, sung into place by singers and the rattle of turtles in the dark morning. When […]

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