The Seventh String

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I hear, them quiet; they hum—
men and women out in ashen fields.
They hum—
poor without a soul’s thirst or feed.
In the garden,
festooned pillars of nosegays,
ladies and rascals rise out from Arden
where they sing and stomp to the hardy blues.
He fell from the evening heavens and he said:
We are the music-makers.
I said Boy I must be dead.
I please the blues,
but dat hound’s a’blockin my door.
I please the blues,
but dem songs attractin my lore.
From lost backwoods to bellowing highways
you can still hear those Ghostly blues;
in its beautiful sin, lightens moral decay.