Sure, that guitar
can sing, but
she ought to sting.
Put a bottle on that thing —

let her ring, bring that
tingle between
navel and
nether

whenever,
in sweetness or sorrow,
no matter the weather.
Hand steady on, then shaky, snaking,

limber till it flexes up to
the right note, or maybe just short —
you catch your breath thinking
it’s gonna bring you

home — but then
full stop,  back down
low, lower,  back up the neck
from thick to high and it keens

like they say the wind does
somewhere, like a train going by.
Sings like
I do when you play me right,

at midnight or high noon, blue
or wild, there’s some kind of story there,
names and places, spirits and flesh
too slick to put a breath on, and still

you go on, tremble your hand
like you’re throwing dice in a barroom
with the whole place gathered round calling
for the lucky bones, and it moans and sighs

that glass-tongued tale of a mourning
gone on too long or a longing going
straight into morning — put a bottle on it,
honey: shake loose that song.