Saints

I hesitate 

      but make myself do it.

I place my ear on your pillow

     at 8:32 PM,

the exact moment 

     of your ascent 

a year ago tonight.

     Yes––ascent––a propulsion

I listen for. 

     A gust of wind 

lifting lifting lifting 

     your wholeness

––mustache and thick curls, 

     perfect teeth, long legs––and, of course 

your bel canto trumpet,

     setting your completeness 

down onto the 

     unendingness

of saints marching in, 

     of brass bands 

and beautiful solos, 

     your trumpet blaring, 

your cuff links 

       gleaming.