The Colour of Jazz

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

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