The Night Sky Late August

just before midnight and a sweet, kind wind moves in from the west. So gentle it belies the fact of rain in the morning. The stars still show, Ursa Major, or the Big Dipper in the northwest. The arm is made up of four stars called the Mizar Zeta. These are my friends who give great comfort in the dark.

E7 A7 B9

Albert King was my grandpa

in the same way I often sit at night

in the cup of Ursa Major,

letting my arms drift out behind me

along the Mizar Zeta stars,

spine stretched out, not taut,

but languorous,

lifted by the way the man’s

voice can move me,

move me

out into the stellar midst

where we dance, really dance, really dance.

There is a science in the tension of string,

there is an art in the brush of a man’s fingers,

the way the man’s fingers move on.

I feel them clasp behind my shoulders

perfectly, releasing

as I raise arms above my head,

then around his neck,

and he makes mudra within

my shining body:

how is it that just three chords

can do that?


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