What is a trumpet doing here?

she was only human

with a few hours to spare and an urge to connect
a fundamental niche that couldn't be occupied,
so what was real was left
so everything became everything
and ghosts spoke through haunted windows

dreaming in ectasy, alone in the waves and free longnecks
her mind new the words as they swelled in the room,
and only knew them then.
the stutters, the electricity beeping in and out.
she could as well be drowning, the arm weights tipping her head
into the driving stream,
the rocks mixed with blood
eros fighting agape
competing for the resource that was actually
everywhere.
the water bent the notes like light

I've got a question and no one's the answer
a tuxedo on, and no one to dance with.