SOMETHING ABOUT JOHN COLTRANE
Something about a tree in shallow sleep
Listening for what it wants to remember:
The note of a seed, its neck sliding through
Dirt and its confusion—nothing cleansed
Of struggle. The weight lost after death,
A confrontation of death. John Coltrane
Even in death is a perfect instrument
Of water and working the day past its zero—
The fires in the trees, a legless rabbit
Drifting across the sky—dream of a mule
Covered in crows opened in front of a mule
Covered in crows, their wings beating against him
Like skin. An autumned tree in autumn
Watching fire autumn the other trees.
It doesn’t have to make sense now; it can
Make sense later on. A mule covered in crows—
Sometimes, you got to stick a little grassIn your mouth
