Wynton

under his feet was the earthen core
acres of quiet fire which lapped up water
and gases and breath itself.
tethered, he was, to it.
yet from heaven a golden lasso achingly unrolled
slung from a pillar of marble and glass, securely fastened to something eternal
from which all of him hung languidly.
in the expanse betwixt heaven and earth
was the music.

pressed from his blood
streaming from his arms
reeling from the polished bell
spilling from some inner teetering vat
which quaked when he breathed.

and when the vat was emptied of an army of liquid notes
and their unbolted sound had sprung from wall to wall
threshing the chaff of unquiet from the tingling air
he shook his sleeves of molten dust
and bade us goodnight.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra.