Far From Sainthood

And when I place the reed upon my tongue,
I am far from sainthood. With a coffin
at my back and black-plumed horses clopping
out a beat less of the streets than shadows
between palm trees, I breathe into the brass
and lead the living through green-painted gates
more municipal than pearl. Jazz is life:
each note is random, raucous, steeped in sex.

Old women feel their juices rise and sing
in praise, while menfolk hold their hats and high-
step in the devil's own dressage. God grants
us grace to dance awhile, to stray upon
this wide and winding path, for all too soon
I forget the tune and my mouth is dry.