Trumpet Player

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