1.

The line of light along his young clean hair
gone haywire in the bell of his trumpet as if he'd ruffled
a yellow dog there. Collars to be worn on
the evening of. In the school cafeteria—no student
will leave—a swaggering When the Saints was
forced through an aperture, a hole in a hedge, a new world
on the other side. How they love war and cabaret
here, I said and saw him politely empty his condensed spit.

Crossing the bridge on hot afternoons coming from
the supermarket I'd heard him practise. The notes
long-sighted among the shopping. The bridge over the stream
that flooded and washed three parked cars
into the branches of the trees. The trumpet they opened up
at customs revealing its deep blue velvet wound.