"In Memory of Clifford Brown" by JOSEPH BRODSKY
It’s not the color blue, it’s the color cold.
It’s the Atlantic’s color you’ve got no eyes for
in the middle of February. And though you sport a coat,
you’re flat on your naked back upon the ice floe.
It’s not a regular ice floe, meltdown-prone.
It’s an argument that all warmth is foreign.
It’s alone in the ocean, and you’re on it alone,
And the trumpet’s song is like mercury falling.
It’s not a guileless tune that chafes in the darkness, though;
it’s the gloveless, frozen to C-sharp fingers.
And a glistening drop soars to the zenith, so
as to glance at the space with no retina’s interference.
It’s not a simple space, it’s a nothing, with
alts attaining in height what they lose in color,
while a spotlight is drifting into the wings,
aping the ice floe and waxing polar.