Thomas Zimmerman    

 

Green to Blue

A doe and fawn clop quick across the street.
The green wood swallows them, a bubble in
a workman’s level. Workman-like is John
Lee Hooker, stomping from the stereo
to drown my neighbors’ Schubert, lovely as
it is. When I was younger, certainty
was inbred king. His blood fed grass and trees,
tornado skies, and me. Tonight, strong beer
will do. “It serves you right to suffer,” growls
the singer, accidental Buddhist, hell-
hound squatting on his love life. “Make more noise!”
I shout, but no one’s here. The beat’s my heart
as well—as well, the feral memory
of that hot pulse that doubled mine most nights.