Saturday, June 23, 2012


When a trumpet finds the curb
at sunset and a breeze blows from the bayous
then I hear you Louis —
hurricane sound and Mississippi lilt
the way I can’t imagine it so north
that ice creeps into  June —
at least along the coast —
where whales lament the way
you do — shed whale-tan
in the face of
the omnipotent harpoons.