Horn   I look at Bernie McGann’s saxophone left on the stand in the break between sets inert and unresolved like a question-mark uncoupled from a very important question and tumbled on its back all bumps and corrugations like its owner’s face and the same ginger-snap colour with the sheen rubbed off the bell gaping like a death-mask the greenish tinge of a long wasting disease stealing over its lips   waiting   like an old dog tied up outside a pub for its master to shuffle out and take it for a final lollop in the park put it through its…