We came upon the delta, we, brothers, split out from the blue wide river, contrapuntal and lost among cypress, moss, muck and brute-teeth jangles.
And though I never carried a tune, I carry the tone of your faded fifths, your deviled triβs and slip-foot riffs, an octave less than finding you gone.
But in these stale bite-fly airs, in this green moss-dripped fiction, better hoped than hung as fourths for a firm resolution - I know
You perch upon a stone, not lay beneath it, and pluck the roots of black mangrove.