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CYAN JAMES
the honky tonk blues bar
We hear from here the water just
under the music, a white-lipped roar
glass under gaslights, rolled-up sleeves
a man’s tending in the corner over
something hard in the cups
a wake, no, we’re alive, we snap
planks, thumbs stubbed against the levy
Dance, I ask, dance—dance with me
I take lapels into my own hands,
dole salt winks on my man’s shoal
trade corn-liquor breath and hang
contra-swing, and when you keel
over and beat heels to the floor,
and feel wood flat under your cheek,
hear under pilings pure pure river
Contributor’s
notes
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