Brett, the sky is best
at night—
purely blackness pierced
with light.
Against it's beauty, I
feel slight.
Hope I can say this, Brett,
just right.

Singing a song of old rebellion
to the tune of fresh despair,
the Mexican rock band singer
wears your style with Morrissey's hair:

dress pants, shirt, guitar and shoes
as black as Eddie's crow.
His tie is white; his brown eyes, bright.
His jaw line casts your shadow.

There's a summer night I can't forget.
I was barefoot and the grass was wet.
We danced like the devil on fire, Brett,
to Mexican rock from an upper apartment.

I was screaming the lyrics in Spanish
with no fucking idea what they meant.
Your young face and faded T-shirt
were both heavy and dripping with sweat.

I can't forget, Brett.

I know the sky is best
at night,
but what is blackness without
some light?
And so I'm smiling at
the sight

and the song of your dead-ringer,
the rebellious Mexican rock band singer.

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