The burnish of late afternoons
as winter ends—
this sadness coming in on waves is not round
and sweet
as the doleful cello
but jagged, intent
finding out places to get through the way wind
tries seams
and cracks of the old house, making
the furnace kick on
or the way his trumpet
sharks
through cloud and paradise shoal, nosing
out the dark fillet
to tear apart and drink his own
"Blue at 4 a.m.," August Kleinzahler
[Chicago Avenue east of Winchester Street]
