The Instrument Responds…


And who knows how I play, how I hold you

to be mysterious as music is,

brief as a summer afternoon, and blue

as Miles Davis was never, how I

am held by you, whose curled melodies sway

in me with new words. If I bend and lie

in that posture, tendering for a curve

this back upright and hollow, who will say

what heaven or hell would have been—or if


any orthodoxy could sustain that beat

of yours, could any bible give of verse

the way you give of your ambitious sweet

improvisation, & breathe into me the riff

of what you hold & only we rehearse?

Copyright Ó by William Glass