In Grief, the Blues


On a quiet street corner
Down from the cafes
A blind, grey-bearded bluesman
Cups hands to face
Sucks and blows a slow lament.

Pure notes, meaning little by themselves
Strung together create meaning and the blues
Notes, man, islands …
“No note is an island, entire of itself”
Solitary harmony on a harmonica
Rich in irony

Grief the accompaniment
Playing an octave lower
Out of tune.

Chris Perley
March 2012


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