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Charlie Parker's telegrams to Chan Parker, on hearing of the death of their daughter
Dropping from the wires,
a cry hangs in the air like a dustcloud
about the shoulders of the man alone
working its way into the wrinkles of his coat
the cracks of his face
filling his jowls, bending his neck
Chan, please help
In his head, he works over one word
tries it out on the lampposts, the hydrants
the curbstones
Like last night's music he explores it
with his fingertips, his tongue
mouthing, holding it like he holds the reed
of his saxophone
his lips tight on its wings, wanting
to let it fly, afraid
to lose control
Chan, help
There is a loneliness which can't be measured
that lies in wait like a shadow in a sidestreet alley
There is an emptiness that can't be weighed
that fills your eyes until they burst
like water-balloons on the sidewalk
Free from any cage, this man cannot fly
He stalks the empty dawn, chewing on his message
Pouring his life into his cry, he throws it
to the air
The Bird cries to his mate
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