The History of Bluegrass
The bees form a living mitt about the aspenís
They could become the glove of my body. They could
The woman never sings and plays in the same instant.
They are mainly brainless, and not even
The Dobro moans.
Or I could take a smoke pot and dress up. Bees
Thereís reverie without them, and now a banjo.
Or I could collect them in plastic bags and let
The woman moves on to a slow sad ballad.
A few stragglers punctuate the chaise lounge. They