Alto Sax Poem by Karen Corinne Herceg

I smoke through the air
on the curve of your notes
at the purse of your lips
your horn the instrument
of my pleasure


only the note is pure
we are suspect
so I ride the melody to forgiveness
of myself
for hearing such music


I am prepared to lose my sight
but not the sound of having you
nor the history
nor the collection of moments
nor the time spent listening


nor the wonder
if it can be retrieved
like an item lost
I only know
the song is now