to E.
John Coltrane
blowing in our ears
is a tavern open at the edge of this day,
on the border of our next page.
The sky is purple,
like salt pinned on mine
and your lips, and now we do not
hold our hands, now
we glide.
We remain soft, matching our corners,
rehearsing the notes that
we hear
with fingers like mild
hooks that sail
ours backbones.