Hearing John Coltrane

I have listened to this
and have not understood,
and I have said to him,
John, buddy, you’re killing me,
and he has said only, Desperate.

Tonight my son and I
are pilgrims in a book store,
and John is there loudly
still speaking what he said.

My son and I are spinning in time
the wheel of opposite ends,
his going up, mine going down.

Centrifugally we divide,
and the child’s face is pure cloth
the man in him will cut to lines.

My son and I were pilgrims

when he bounced at the table
to whatever I played through the speakers,
when he acted out drama of some movie
in context of my command,
when his eyes searched dream air
for promises I spoke
from ancient stories of sorrow,
when he prayed and I passed him the cup.

In the magnetic acoustic
of brick, wood and paper,
John’s notes are alive again
as if alive at the first
and he has said only, Desperate.

Son, one day you also will begin always to let go.
John, I hear you now suddenly beautiful.