The Trane provides me
a view above the asphalt,
and the fault that splits
both bleached and yellow lines.
One-way signs of
demarcation
do not dissuade the cracks,
from their jagged-tooth
borders and thyme,
edging shoulders sleeved
in green.
Camouflaged soldiers
and the leaves of their tea
a jasmine laced with coke.
Teaching the world to sing,
I’ll join in ¾ railing
along the byway
to terminus,
regardless of Trump-
et melody
and the solemnity
of anthemic poems.
You fade,
in ‘67’s
summer fling,
only days before
Detroit, sex and sax
Supreme amid the flames;
Impulsive Blue Notes holding
in the infernal unfurling of flags,
half-massed in the hell of Hanoi,
on cloth too stained by Black
to be revered as
starry White.
Andreas Gripp
November 10, 2024
RF Image
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