These days I look at things, not through them,
And sit down low, as far away from the sky as I can get,
The reef of the weeping cherry flourishes coral,
The neighbour’s back porch lightbulbs glow like
Squid-eyed Venus floats forth overhead.
This is the half hour, half-light, half-dark,
when everything starts to shine out,
And aphorisms skulk in the trees,
their wings folded, their heads bowed.

Every true poem is a spark,
and aspires to the condition of original fire
Arising out of emptiness.
It it that same emptiness it wants to reignite.
It is that same engendering it wants to be
re-engendered by.
Shooting stars.
April’s identical,
celestial, wordless, burning down.
Its light is the light we commune by.
Its destination’s our own, its hope its the hope
we live with.

(Jazz Poems, Body & Soul II, For Coleman Hawkins)

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