When the sax starts,
I forget the days in Denmark. They were
Never like the girl shaking her legs, her hair,
The shape of her neck.
They were like gin martinis near the pool,
Topless, dancing, shadows of the palm trees.
But here I am, in the studio. It’s too hot.
She reads Italian poetry and the smoke curls from her lips.
She speaks of her French lover
And a plane ride to Mazatlán.
She opens the coolness of the universe,
The essence of everything incredibly hip:
The goatee and your smile.