I reached from pain
to music great enough
to bring me back,
swollenhead, madness,
love fruit, a pickle of hate
so sour my mouth twicked
up and would not sing;
there's nothing in the beat
to hold it in
melody and turn human skin;
a brown berry gone
to rot two days on the branch:
we've lost a son,
the music, jazz, comes in.
(1977) Michael Harper