if there is something more intimidating
than a guitar played well,
i’d like to see it. long lines of twang
catch and hang me up like nobody’s
business. it’s like religion — i sit before
someone praying and i understand
the words, even admire them,
but i still wish those were my answers
coming down in response.

take the song on the radio right now:
some guy i don’t know is making some old Martin
sit up and beg, and i’m puzzling my way around
how it would feel to play that way, even though
at the same time i’m imagining his hands broken
and the club owner turning frantically my way
gesturing to get my ass on stage.

all this is by way of saying
that when you touch my arm, it’s like
Blind Willie Johnson is saying “Praise God
I’m satisfied” while blowing the slide up and down
the twelve rough strings of his old Stella,
and i’m not feeling holy enough to receive that grace,
even as i am wishing
that you would tremble this way
when i put my hand upon yours
in turn.