When your blood moves
slower than parting lovers
and night’s own beast
grazes upon disaster
in the loneliness of dawn you’ll hear a horn
sweeter than an angel’s dreams of God.
Then look for me from your window
and me upon the meadows
along of the drowsy trees
waking the birds.
Then look for me from your dooryard
and myself down the street,
turning the corner
as if it were Ace of Trumps.