The
With the trumpet at his
Has dark moons of
Beneath his eyeswhere the smoldering memoryof slave
Blazed to the crack of whipsabout
The negrowith the trumpet at his lipshas a head of vibrant hairtamed down,patent-leathered nowuntil it gleamslike jet—were jet a crownthe musicfrom the trumpet at his lipsis honeymixed with liquid firethe rhythmfrom the trumpet at his lipsis ecstasydistilled from old desire—Desirethat is longing for the moonwhere the moonlight's but a spotlightin his eyes,desirethat is longing for the seawhere the sea's a bar-glasssucker
The Negrowith the trumpet at his lipswhose
Has a fine one-button roll,does not knowupon what riff the music
It's hypodermic needleto his soulbut softlyas the tune comes from his throattroublemellows to a golden note
