Sculpting the Head of Miles Davis

Secure the base
so the flesh will have something
to cling to. Wrap wire

around the wood
and fill with clay, liberally.
No, continue to add

clay—more than it seems
you will ever need for his
indented cheeks—and slap

more onto the base of the skull;
don't forget the constellation
of bones in the skull;

don't get hypnotized by the geometry
of the eyes; gouge your fingers
into his sockets—we'll deal with this later.

Pull back and follow the rhythm
of the jawline, rub your thumb
over the forehead; stab

your fingers into his cheekbones
raise them higher.
Doesn't his face

cast ribbons of shadow?
Doesn't he have cavernous
dimples? But don't make him

smile; imagine the teeth are behind
the sheet music of his lips;
imagine the tongue is aflame

behind the teeth; imagine
there's a voice scratching in the throat.
No. The temples sit too high;

the nose will not bespeak
his middle-class air;
raise the forehead,

straighten the nose bridge,
deepen the furrow of his brow.
Now, remember the look

in his eye back in '89 when
you saw him play at the Beacon Theater?
Can you see it yet? Stand back.

Tell me if the man whose face
you hold in your palms
could watch his mute drop from his horn,

at the start of his solo, pick it up—no
lowering of his head, no shrugging of his shoulders—
and go on to blow a phrase that still

trembles between your fingers