ARTHUR SZE'S HOUR

Into the opal moon
 of gravity's loving
open heart surgical wound
  you have reached
for high ground
on the cemetery mounds
of snow surprising all of us
by tins of good fortune
in your night watch ear
like HAMLET you wait
for a day perchance
to meet your fate
in a bathing cookie
from green Chinese tea
 by running out of angel steam
     at dusk of rose lilac
hearing my alto sax
play a dirge
you do not humor us ,SZE
but from windshields of riffs
   along the gallery
  of lost souls and schools
you  can tell a minor chord
of an old Beat
in its compassionate time
of being an orphan in this hour.