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Cecelia Hagen Song for the End of May I take up my trumpet like I can't help it, waving around the unwanted brass, riffing on bear, barely, bare it unable to summon a deep enough breath to be quiet, let my hands on your skin be the music that it is. I'm tired of keeping my face turned toward the sun, rejecting the shadowy areas that pull and push. Meanwhile the horizon I used to probe with my long-armed imagination recedes. Concessions are everywhere; the secret is to dress them up in carival clothes, bunting and burlap, things the rain can utterly, completely ruin. That's the beauty of it, the here-today drumbeat that thrum the petals off the extravagance roses and pinks my collarbone with your loosening breath.