I wish I knew
the color of the wind that blew
through Trane’s saxophone the night he cried;
I’d bottle it, drink slow, let the blue
spill down my throat like moonlit tide.
I wish I knew
the name of every ghost that flew
across the valves, the keys, the scars he wore;
I’d call them back, ask them to renew
the broken syllables of love once more.
I wish I knew how mercy feels in sound,
how loss can fold itself into a bloom;
I’d plant it in the cracks beneath this town,
and wait for midnight petals to resume.