on not hearing ornette coleman in grant park.
The saxophone curls around the grid. Plastic, bending, melodic, blown by a breeze from Lake Michigan, pleading for sense, and for sensations, for sadnesses. It enters my skull and pulls me out toward the American skies. The grass curls into blades, reedy shudders of wind at the edge of the sidewalk. Cracks in the pavement. Manmade beaches where the water strikes rocks. The stillness far from the agora. It doesn’t matter if you hear me or not: sounds make ideas touch past their echoes.
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