The Last Trump
Against your body, white
as heroin shooting
from the needle into the junkie’s arm,
my hand creeps round the curve of your thigh
like a black cat in the dark
drawn on its plot
by the crossed stars
of your Lorenz attractors.
Curled like a hirsute cherub
on a baroque bass viol,
I strum one string
like a hillbilly playing wash tub,
tweaking and twanging
the peg your earlobe
with my teeth.
Like a jazzman laying down
a bebop rhythm,
I hug the vibe
while you take your solo
blowing high and sweet and strange
your lonely cornet.
