47
flute
Philip’s flute spears demons in the dark redwoods,
pierces my coiled program. Its pitch conjures me
in its circle—this solo partita, his lowered eyes aloof,
his lungs hung like boda bags expanding across the coastal range.
Philip’s lips kiss the warm silver, fresh from velvet plush.
I am first row center, so close I can see Vivaldi seduce him,
feel Phil’s instrument scoop the bated air, catch his breath.
Phil, thin as a reed, brown as mahogany, fresh from a trip
to the Azores, fresh from a crow’s nest where his cadenzas fed the gulls.
Palms dip to the sea breeze. The sand is saffron, the sea an inkwell
blue with ache. Phil’s fingers arch above his tone holes. He charms
a cobra from its basket. How hard it is to hear him play.
Pointe de Nyon, 2015
by Emily Moore