nothing abstract in waiting,
what comes to the
surface when boiled is
all my selfishness,it's the
sound of wooden blocks
clamoring together,it's
horns with unity,
it's not a seance,but
john coltrane is made up of
good visions,
nothing i see,i mean,
he might look from behind
his horn and
he's not where he's
standing,and he's
not saying anything,
he's tender,
tenor sleeves,soprano and
alto fingers,
he used to hold
eric dolphy's flute
after his passing,
in the evening,i put
barefeet into shoes,and
make sure pants are
rolled up a little so the
breezes at sunset are
good reminders,
i've cut the clover
down,but i was a
thankful one when i
stepped into an
usually deep patch of
three-leafs,and
felt all the cool
goodness of this season,
may all these things
increase,
No comments:
Post a Comment