Behind my eyes lately the sun doesn't flash in the river
And this warm wind to my left is finishing off a rock.

Part of the earth spins in the darkness found in a shut
Mouth. There's a stoned girl in the park shaking
A Crown Royal bottle with green and black beads in it.

The cashier smiles at me sympathetically, like I'd hoped
She wouldn't as I place it on the counter. We share

An embarrassment teenagers feel in the backs of cars,
But she can't see me turning on my side in bed,
Listening for music at 4 A.M.

The name must be an amalgam of all the St. Johns:
The headless Baptist; the exiled author of Revelation;

The father of Peter the Rock; and the John called Mark,
Companion to Paul, crucified upside down — a pair
Of swallows sat on his feet and pecked at the mist

Of gnats congregating around his toes. He moaned
Like you think he'd moan, refusing the sponge

Of vinegar the guard thrust in his mouth. To be in such company
One must remain in good spirits. How could the blessed not be?

Theirs was a pain of the body.

My friend John would pack a bowl at one red light, light it
At the next, and inhale as we merged with the swirl

Of Philadelphia on I-95. He blew his hit in my direction

And I took it in as my own. Kind of Blue in the tape deck,
Slouching, sleepy horns. For hours, without comment,

We had visions of every sunny place there was. Now
He's at the Presidio and knows how to kill

Painlessly by snapping the top vertebrae.
That's what they do there; they're good at it.

When he exhales in his bunk at night,
It echoes down the hall before it gets quiet again.

On "Naima," track 6, Giant Steps, Coltrane doesn't play
For over half the song. When he does, though, like in the album

Photo, he shuts his eyes tight, as if he were controlled by the progression
Rather than controlling it, and the engineer, overwhelmed with bliss
And remorse, excuses himself to call his ex-girlfriend in Kansas City.

That's the story. And as Coltrane empties
His spit valve iinto the trash can, Jimmy Cobb sets his brushes
Down and says, Man, St. John Coltrane,
Please play it, again and again and again ....

His eyes stay shut for almost another minute. Behind them,
A blue train stocked with daffodils wanders without sound
Before hiding beneath his memory of the phrases he's just created.

I'm afraid to look, he says, that's all.