- Blues Passage
Stones in my passway, Robert Johnson sang— Meaning, I think, the cursed ground east Of Eden where he'd been cast—and my road seem dark as night. I pile them behind me In the garden aisles, little bits of rubble The light has emptied from. For five summers I've been trying to turn clean fill into soil, Freighting out sand and pebbles, brickwork Clay, the sedimentary shale. All that time I dreamt dark loam, hear me howlin' in my passway, deep and rich as your body. Out this morning, after a day of rain, I found The last bed covered with that dead mineral litter. So many, the hoe chinks going in. They rise from the earth, you once told me, Laughing your great acceptance of things. Later, all you asked for was a chance. Please don't block my road. By then the only Mercy was the coma. Again this morning, When I went out, there were nothing but stones.
Robert Gibb’s last book of poems, The Origins of Evening, was a National Poetry Series winner (selected by Eavan Boland). His new book, The Burning World, has just been published by the University of Arkansas Press.