Nate Slawson
YOU ARE SAXOPHONE
is not yr soul
a tiny jukebox,
a pain in yr heart
sprung from the
blues, & which,
when I cup my
hand to yr chest,
be like thunder-
ous rain, like
wasps in a coffee
can, & thou
nettles & dry river-
bed, thou sermon
of fire, sister, &
we hymnal of
matchsticks.