for Robert Johnson
i. west
they got it wrong about “slide” guitar.
story goes, there’s a prison with no guards inside,
the walls are glass and you could see the ocean
if you looked up with your eyes closed. the men
waste the hours breaking the necks of bottles, drink,
slide blood-hands on the walls, some song of longing.
ii. south
it’s so goddamn hot you mistake water
for sand. you dive in the inside of it, each grain
finding its way to your mouth’s pink-roofed prison.
what good is the cage if it’s filled? the whole
point is the space remaining. if you die like this;
filled, what’s death when a coffin is inside a coffin?
iii. north
up in new york, there’s a prison on water.
inmates hang right side-up like upside-down
bats in the shadowed corners of the rooms.
think of rows of empty boxes with cots
and bowls. think of boxes spared and emptied of men.
i think the men kiss the ceilings when they hang.
iv. east
at the crossroads, the devil casts four shadows
on the ground. the moon glistened like a wafer
and i found religion after picking the guitar. only something
this hollow could sing so well. now, my soul spoons
through my chest, leaving this one good prison for some other.