Pilot Light
A Journal of 21st Century Poetics and Criticism
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Letter to Gabriel Written in the Margins of Murder Ballads
(Continued from Page 9)
Jake gone eight months, 
even the honeysuckle estranges, 
pleats the afternoon. 

Everything is unfinished, momentary. 
It’s not anyone’s fault, I know. 

We’re all strangers to the middle of the noise.

On Live at Birdland, Coltrane’s Alabama drops 
the snare by the church parking lot at 2:42. 

That’s where the ghosts are, 
waiting with the floor tom, 
a tousled mess of glyph and syllable. 

Child of gravity, stranger to the ground. 
Come down and help me rise. 
(Continue to Page 11)