Or the Last Note Bird Ever Blew

I like the late night winter city
cold and abandoned
jazz on the cab radio–

’cause jazz pre-exists all this
it is the Ideal Form by which the city
was/is formed–

traffic lights
comping chords in the after-hours
yellow, red, green
empty intersections
a few taxis blown away
snow dust down avenue D
the last notes a Bird ever blew.