Delta Blues

it
rained on your
wedding anniversary
in late
January it slickened
the pavement and the
storestickered window
glass until everything
showed you
yourself and yourself back
thousands of nameless
times and on your
wedding anniversary
the reckless young minister
that married you sat watching
old television sets and ancient
pianos fly thru' fifth-
story windows while
he dined on fancy bourbon and
spanish rice going over his
hand to god and faintly
lapping the endless land that lay quite outside his small church. the city
was filled with piano. darkwood. and on your
wedding
anniversary. men lit fires outside
glass monasteries and
the slinking
city was the inner eye of a glazed
catfish writhing 'round the
muddy bottom
of a truly immutable river.

and it
was raining
quite hard
it was raining
hard enough to ruin
your brand
new shoes and the hanging
hem of your dress
and the rolled part of
your black trousers
and
you were singing. an old song. an ancient song. one that offended the radios in the store windows and on your
wedding anniversary
the ink of the newspapers in
the gutter was sticky and
damp. the night fell. in accordance with gravity in the yawning gape of pregnant clouds. you held hands. you dined and asked

shall it? shall it
really?