There Isn't Any Other

There isn’t any other sound
Right now
Like the serpentine commingling
Of Don Cherry & Bobby Bradford’s trumpets
On the title track of Ornette Coleman’s
Science Fiction.
There isn’t any other sight, as the horns
Turn the desert sky from a dingy
Pink to a radiant orange with their
Plaintive bleats & putative blares.
There isn’t any other way
To say how I’m feeling as I watch
The way the perspiration gathers
At the indentation between your
Throat and your shoulder blade,
That suprasternal notch, that Plender gap,
That opening to a dimension I can imagine
But there isn’t any other way to see,
So please, I plead, be gentle with me,
For there isn’t any other than me
For there isn’t any other,
Not now, not here -- isn’t there?