Jazz Night at the Museum
by Leonore Hildebrandt
For the modernist, an egg shattered in the street.
A heart? Straggling notes court the monkey tree.
“It may take sixty years until the bamboo
finally blooms,” you say, “and then the whole plant dies.”
The dimly – lit blues ballad murmurs intimacies:
sea lavender in gilded frames.
A break, and the man in the vintage hat
works the crowd: a trumpeter from Moscow!
Three horns — their fictions prolifically bounding up
grand stairs and corridors, to the landscapes —
the field – rubble after winter, a sky over – clouding —
to rosy bathers, nudes draped on luscious cloth.
Outside, taxis. We circumvent downtown’s clusters,
its ravines and cliffs funneling a harsher wind —
installations in a troubled key.