Grey, cold spells on the Delta are requiems.
Fitful sleep and purpose wrapped together
in one lonely dream while the Blues speaks it all –
screaming souls and pale guitars wail until morning,
a devilish provocation of want, and want, and want.
If you could hear the insatiable songs
in these crumbling houses surrounding us,
and feel the moans at midnight
of God's love and all its punishment –
you'll see the mud and desperation flowing
down the banks of the Mississippi,
down the river of forget,
down the nightmare-grieved cheeks of children
waking from bursts of lightning at midnight.
