Today it’s like water in the ear, a slow bleed in the brain,
thinking of your bones
and the marrow inside them. Last night,
half-awake, I leaned into the siren as it passed
and thought of Coltrane writing his liner-note prayer
—it all has to do with it—
and listened for the drumbeat of another pulse in me.
It’s there, but I can’t hear it. In the morning
there will be blue sunlight and organ music
from the church across the street.
Where you’ve gone, there will be a night sky of psalms—
a cello’s goose neck, fingers waiting
above a stalled note.
________________Oh, ear of my ear,
there’s hardly anything
left of you now.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.