Miles Apart

poetry

from the Hyland Harris collection; for educational purposes only

Miles Apart

His music is not of the sun
for harsh and loud it burns.
His is as cool as night’s 
limbs expanding into space.

We disappear in his trumpet
twinkling at stars floating by.
The day always returns
whether we're ready or not.

Hopefully to a gentle snare
sunglasses on the bed stand.
And curtains open to a
New Orleans trumpet.

And if its streaming 
light rays of joy.
Are still too far of ear
at least we've made
it to the window.