HERE WHERE COLTRANE IS

Soul and race

are private dominions

memories and modal

songs, a tenor blossoming,

which would paint suffering

a clear color, but is not in

this Victorian house

without oil in zero degree

weather and a forty-mile-an-hour wind;

it is all a well-knit family:

a love supreme.

Oak leaves pile up on walkway

and steps, catholic as apples

in a special mist of clear white

children who love my children.

I play”Alabama”