April 26, 1915–April 20, 1992
It should be thistle-covered,
a labor of thunder bent
through it.
It should fountain sweet-
water arcs into catfish-
mouthed bottlenecks.
It should flock blackbirds
into halos about it.
It should be wrapped in guitar
string and whistle
wind up in its branched
hair of calamitous thorn.
Above all, a rose
carried in a pocket
at least a hundred miles.
Beneath all, a 33-r.p.m.
orbit of diamond-cut
tremble. Surrounding all,
the record skipping on
at least a dozen echoing
country yodels.
I ask again:
Where is the shrine
to Johnny Shines?
I peeked into the
dark covering my eyes
with its ethereal hands,
and then only then
did I hear.
