Like Son’s sweet resonator,
I am the honey bee moan
in your tender ear:
silver howl, cross-
road breath. This body
tuned & flawed,
the fretboard
a plank of mercy.
In the burn
of the baddest juke,
no soul fears dance,
damns touch. Our hands,
dear God, sign
the wanting. They tremble,
slide release
the loudest chords.
from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library
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