ISSUE 11

Ken Holland

​

​​

​

Soho in the Rain

Hamiet Bluiett on the edge of his baritone sax,
dissonance so brutal it beggars beauty, recreates
that beauty after its own image. Some sit

swirling their scotches to the rhythm between the notes.

Outside the club, the clouds have broken formation.
Taxis sluice through guttered water, the water
reassembling into oiled puddles in which streetlamps
fight for their own reflection. It’s been just a year
since you sought to take your own life. And here,
on this evening, celebration of that failure.

The sidewalks flex to the steel syncopation of a passing subway,
steam rising as pockets of thin rain sublimate
from the heat held in asphalt. There’s an odd timbre
to the night: people laughing with voices held to whispers,
horns muted by the sultry air. And slipping through it all,
you and I, not a word passing between us.​​

​

​

​

​