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.
