Blues for the Fisherman

Blues for the Fisherman

Since the blues ought to be tall birds
wading and wailing
when the sun dies—
let the blues fill its lungs now:

the hard-working sun dips
and folds into the hills and rocks,
and the stars begin to show up
one one.

As the sun dies, love it with the blues.

When a man dies
hurt ought to be a monsoon
moaning denial. When a man dies—
do despise that peacock sunset,

despise the ping ping emergence of stars,

drown their fluty condolence, damp their trills.
When a man dies
let grief swallow the light

and the heron in twilight.