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![Image for the poem variation for blue trumpet](/images/uploads/poemimages/173606.jpg?)
variation for blue trumpet
she flashes those firecracker-green eyes & everyone
takes notice, like Spanish horns in ‘Ring of Fire.’
sailboats on the horizon. a red moon on a sultry night
& you ain’t got a notebook.
I dredge up visions of her in various shades of nakedness,
suggestive poses that a reckless girl learns in the cramped
back seat of a 2-door hardtop. & I speculate: could I even
satisfy a woman like that… maybe. maybe not.
so I dream on it. a suite at the Waldorf or a cheap motel
room; as long as the sheets are clean, she ain’t particular.
it’s probably a cloudy night, total blackout, but what is a
poem without moonlight, & she is bathed in it.
{watching her undress, it occurs to me that there are a
million things out there that could break a man’s heart
& leave him drowning in his own dreams.
in this room, there was only one…}
this dream, this noir of sex, rushes in kinescopic black&white.
panoramic, pornographic fantasy marinated in lurid details.
grasping, repelling body upon nude body, rolling & rhythmic,
like the crossing of rivers. many, many rivers. & the heat of her
composes laconic rhymes on my flesh that will seduce me on
languorous, lonesome nights.
…the dream fades – it’s the way of all dreams.
the moon hops a tailwind for parts unknown.
& in the swaying shadows, a sad man blows his trumpet.
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