40. NOCTURNE

Your wind, my empty friend,
come to fill my open hands—
the night is his bellyful purse,
come to clatter pennies on my knuckles.
The mountains in the city have neon.
A trumpet is still, I know, because
because of his hand, to her breast,
and her hand, rising to caress.
An empty coat's the wind's tent,
air in trumpet's wet with osculations,
he signed his name and
folded the canvas away.
Somewhere, I think, butterflies
     and children.
Gomez saw and heard the elevation.
Eddie cried and sang and drank
     into his radio.
I am a stranger here
but these streets treat me
as if I'd never been away.