NIGHTS
Nights spaced out
when only
solitary trumpet sounds
of Miles Davis
haunts me for a girded
trance suspending
my own blushing reality
in Louis Malle’s
black and white
“Ascenseur pour
l’échafaud,”
drunk on the wounds
and sounds
of the enchained city
hiding gallows heights
of a horizon’s shadows
with a romantic
claustrophobic suspicion
that we cannot escape
our earthly mirrors
in film noir film clips
from my insomniac
red eye,
heedless from a voice
for Miles
amid the brass
of standing waves
across the Seine,
covering strobe lights
in a vertigo
of small space
in illusion’s harmony.