The saxophone is an instrument of the city.
Telephones pole and wire to neck empty buildings.
Everything quotidian as the brass of gold.
Either night or the day too bright to look at directly.
The birds do not flock.

Clavicles clatter on the floor.
Old men build less and less until the center is razed.
Tenuous the brick in its beauty.

The day pipes a solemn song of sojourn.
There is worship of fire and water and of clay.

The saxophone speaks to no one.
The beach is overwhelmed by wave.
This is castle and this is grave.
The saxophone does not say.