He Lifts the Trumpet

He lifts the trumpet
through the bleary room.
The smoke and suffering
hanging on the clothes
of barflies with black hands
and red eyes
reaches his nose.
In the alley children dance
hopscotch on the coals.
The angel glances from
the pocket of a bum.

Below the coming chorus
the wheels of love hum
and all breaks!
The first note flies
as his left hand shakes
voltage from brass
tone like broken glass
and he keels over one
splits two with a gold crown
three he's a holy ghost
four is none —
the stagger staggers on.

The night passes through
a bell of burn
and is found melted
into a beauty blow
at the shoeshone heel
of the new creator.
His blown head is open
like a crater.
The echo sobs and
in the street everyone falls
to their knees.
His trumpet has the sky
by the throat.

And then he plays
the second note —

Owen Lucas