In August, a Sunday

Another afternoon yellow sun wearing off
as nature’s considered plea continues

into the brux, like sap beneath tree tops.
So I export on the blue candor of Mingus

smuggled from all that confounds. What,
from cicadas and handclaps, birdfeeders

above serpent castanets, brink collections
of superfluous gardens unperfumed

of the white lily upon the morning nude.
Is growth added. Life. As this will be all

momentum to love about jazz. Attended
to scruff the glum of sadness, dip measured

with brass tissue and for nothing more than
barely a tune. Often a fall, oh, it minors up so

towards a too complex but deepened horizon,
exhaled warm and for the plum of sundown.