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Elegy To Miles Davis
By Aaron H. Midler
I find the ring of his trumpet on the rim of my mug,
The bitter, black taste of its wail in my tea,
Feeling his hot breath blowing his hot breath blowing his hot breath
This drink will not be cooled.
But where is the man who left these things behind?
Not at rest against the china handle--
No sign of bed beside the milk,
Nor bite upon the biscuit.
No hair or blood or skin or blues
Left floating in my tea.
he leaves a note--
the barest footprint
fossilized in sugar.
And this warm peace.
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Document last modified on: 08/19/2002