it’s not like i knew i was supposed to die.

i read the Scripture, i didn’t write it.

i jumped that slow train when it came, i didn’t

load it—benediction blue & ornery, still

crisp through bruised mornings, curls of light

rusted then beaten straight.

the burning bush came back this year, all pinks

& reds flailing out front, heat carried

into the night sky by wind.

the retired botanist next door says we gotta purge

our lawn, says they’re invasive & stealing sunlight

from native plants & foliage. Lord willing

& the creek don’t rise those lovely leaves will bloom

again next year just like a burning bush

& the year after that. that’s when the blues

is needed most, isn’t it? patterns knit

like hymnals, killing only what loves you

enough to stay. you can usually catch me slipping

between alleys spared dawn’s arrival

trading flesh pound for pound but i’m still

waiting for that second shot at grace.

either fork i take i stumble like fat fingers

plucking pennies from that empty fountain

where i never find your birth year. i don’t know

if you even have a birth year. i figure someone

took that from you too, squeezed clean through

loose sleeves or that hole rotted through your gut.

you’ve trembled & moaned for everyone

from newborns to saviors, prayed the same

for those who hurt & heal us, but only call

on God when you need to cash in on mercy.

before you left you told me miserable things

when you thought i was sleeping thinking

i would never remember but it’s all right

here, my friend, every last word seared

through my skull. i saw you build beds

out of lost nights ankle deep in a tangle

of that irish cream you loved to swill

even with my hands like a frayed knot

clasped behind the wall of your back.

blues bars hung below Heaven close enough

to lick. no need for blankets. blood thin & balmy.

i was walking, tumbling maybe, who knows what

the bottle brought me that morning, a 10 dollar guitar

strapped across my back, hands dug in my pockets

so they couldn’t do harm but nothing can

prepare you when that last slate of dusk peels

apart & the reddest damn thing you’ve ever seen

crawls out of that single fold in the night

like a bedsheet in a jail cell, muttering

something like life on Earth is long

& before i knew it, he faded out like a dance.

i didn’t even take any money from him.

how could i? this heart’s been busted open

& ransacked so many times. didn’t strike me right

to charge. you know, it’s the damnedest thing.

not one new note has come to me since.

now i just sit & sing the only song i know.

everybody’s sick half-to-death of it

so no one even comes around anymore.

but neither do you. you’ll still find me here

nursing some kind of solution—coffee, whiskey,

devotion—but nothing seems to do nothing

no numbness, no damage, no aligning

the nerves or stars. it’s like i’m cursed

with just being. what i’m trying to tell you

death is a song. one minute you’re swaying

eyes brimming like a wave bound to crash

next you look down & see yourself

bleeding like a lamb.

i just keep replaying that final frame under those

sad & crooked stars. lights lit low. a turning away.

slouching toward Bethlehem like that man said

in that old poem you used to read every night

before bed. people ask me all the damn time why

i just handed my heart to that brute—don’t i miss it?

truth is your heart can’t be pierced through the ear.

no song i sing will ever be enough.

you need to fix your tongue for salvation, rip

your chest open for bullets big as Corona bottles,

seal that goodbye kiss with all seven sins, leave

a little blood out for the hellhounds

to find their way home.