The heart is a black box flight recorder,
crashed in a mountain range,
somewhere south of the equator.
Ventricles choke but there is no pain.
Its beat is an irregular metre.
It spills out of the cockpit, waiting
to give up its filthy secrets.
He went to a party at Muddy Water’s house
and woke up at Howlin’ Wolf’s, soaked in rye.
What chords were played and in what order?
There’s a red veil over the lampshade.
The coals of cigarettes search through
blood-clot fog above a carpet of waves
as drowned bodies bob to the surface.