If you subtract the minor losses，

    you can return to your childhood too：

    the blackboard chalked with crosses，

    the math teacher's toe ring. You

    can be the black boy not even the buck-

    toothed girls took a liking to：

    the match box， these bones in their funk

    machine， this thumb worn smooth

    as the belly of a shovel. Thump. Thump.

    Thump. Everything I hold takes root.

    I remember what the world was like before

    I heard the tide humping the shore smooth，

    and the lyrics asking： How long has your door

    been closed？ I remember a garter belt wrung

    like a snake around a thigh in the shadows

    of a wedding gown before it was flung

    out into the bluest part of the night.

    Suppose you were nothing but a song

    in a busted speaker？ Suppose you had to wipe

    sweat from the brow of a righteous woman，

    but all you owned was a dirty rag？ That's why

    the blues will never go out of fashion：

    their half rotten aroma， their bloodshot octaves of

    consequence； that's why when they call， Boy， you're in

    trouble. Especially if you love as I love

    falling to the earth. Especially if you're a little bit

    high strung and a little bit gutted balloon. I love

    watching the sky regret nothing but its

    self， though only my lover knows it to be so，

    and only after watching me sit

    and stare off past Heaven. I love the word No

    for its prudence， but I love the romantic

    who submits finally to sex in a burning row-

    house more. That's why nothing's more romantic

    than working your teeth through

    the muscle. Nothing's more romantic

    than the way good love can take leave of you.

    That's why I'm so doggone lonesome， Baby，

    yes， I'm lonesome and I'm blue.