For B.B.

There were guitar licks in the whitest cotton. That's where the Delta became a womb, a fertile mud, Holding onto hot nightclubs, and charred impulses. On some deep, black night she came, a woman (so many women gave so much to time) Like no other, to care about a boy distinct in his fingers, Who could've been dead, near the bland scum of ponds. Riffs were considered and death, reconsidered. And you were heard, Noticed within despised languages, gritty as love between Easy strangers, the one American trope Born in sounds, before sounds turned tail on fear. No more crying, no more waiting, no more Fury contained in notes of conscience.