Fourth Movement

I’m navigating Bloomfield Avenue
To Coltrane’s chronic prayer for saxophones,
A love supreme, divine and overdue.
Pedestrians behind the orange cones
Are waiting for their bus or heart attack
With coffee cups and modulating bones.
The melody advances front to back
And lingers at this corner where I stopped
to find an alternating rhythm track
beneath the cut of dynamite. I dropped
The flying highway with my other glove,
And now this sound, meandering, has cropped
The temporal continuum above
A love supreme, a love supreme, a love.

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