Chet Baker on the stereo—
I imagine his Caravaggio face, heroin-
ruined in the single spot, as the horn comes
into languor, slow notes suffusing the groin—

applause for the trumpet's blue arrangements,
eighth notes slurring past slate roofs,
scatter-shots of sounds, familiar and strange—
cry of sirens, construction cranes—

kids playing at dusk, falling into their
own shadows on lawns like scissors—
metronomed scales of piano practice,
staccato of footsteps, coming home—

above the trumpet's metal and spit,
refrigerator hum, the din of phones,
someone coughs, someone hisses a white rage
for the song gone out of their bones—

ignition keyed quiet, Chet's last notes—
long vibrato shaping pain into order,
in the last crease of light—
thin as a knife,
a wish.