120

At six a.m. I was drifting
In and out of sleep and I
Could hear a harsh sound
Like something gasping for
Life; someone just stabbed.
Like OH, OH. He was in the
Bathroom. I realised it was
The saxophone. A sequence
Of notes fell out like it was
Breaking and I heard Fuck.
Later I opened my eyes
And he came out of there
With it around his neck,
In a loose, dirty white shirt
With black buttons like a
Parisian whiteface with his
Eyes seeming to bleed they
Were so red and in the
Dark room his lit cigarette
Shone in the structure of the
Instrument, the only light.
She is my mother he said,
And laughed in the dark.
I was still fallen asleep—
He was like some visitation.