John Farrell - Icicle (Number 4)

It is the constellations/ illuminating/
That has brought me back from primitive
Sleep with flesh intoxicated.

New York City, stock-pile of childhood sentiments/
Father, hold my hand again
on the subterranean/ sorrow/ subway.

I have a rendezvous with a summer
Midnight/ criss-crossing the Armageddon/
To hear rabid men of God preaching truth.

Revealing/ in whispers/ and icicles/
The high culture of Jazz unfolding/
Yielding giant modal melodies.

It is the constellations/ illuminating/
that stays with me/ in simple songs/
Complex tears of veniality shed.

Riding the Ronkonkoma Line in dreams
to Pinelawn/ placing a stone on Coltrane's grave/
Back when primitive sleep intoxicated my flesh.

John Farrell

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/icicle-number-4/