Blue, Again
Wednesday morning—it’s
Miles again, this time
in Texas, the Gulf clouds
dense gray, running
westward, flamenco
sketched in rubble stone,
not as a dancer moves,
quick and equestrian
but as a hand moving
line by line across paper,
the soft sounds of graphite
or silverpoint catching
broken, random fibers;
Coltrane, Evans, the dancer
poised as though of memory
