A bright brass bell

With no clapper;

Sweet, low sounds

Fill the room.


Sliding down scales,

Slipping across the page,

Swing low,

Sweep high,

Range over specks

Scribbled with lines over the leaves.


Jazz melodies

Brought to life

Through the rose-brass bell.

Slurring, gliding along

Mixing notes in new ways.

Using his tongue as a turn table

and his lungs as an amp.

Blurring Armstrong and rock

In the curved cylinder.


A thousand hands come together

Thundering in the hall

In response

To one lone body

On the stage,

Clasping cold metal,

Bowing forward,

Rising wipes the ring from

Around his lips,

And raises

The long instrument,

A twisted tube.


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