It’s all red and smoky blackness
in St Nick’s underground,
blackness and velvety red.

Man no man
could resist this music’s
pull through velveteen drapes.

Beyond it is like some urban Eden:
the tobacco-sweet air
sweetened with whisperings,

the bass’s vibrations
in drones of pleasure
racing right through you,

the brush-licked cymbals,
the stiff brushes
caressing stretched skin,

the wet mouth open,
the trumpet lifted toward it.
Black and velvet red.