Passacaglia and Blues
Not even Bach can comfort me tonight.
Play me something lowdown, hot and sweet—
something slow and sobbing with a beat
that pulses, throbbing, through the floor.
Play me something that I never heard before.
Lord, this Lethe lapping at my feet
is black molasses. Bach is beautiful
(so goddam neat, you know)
but blues is better when love's got the blight.