Bugalú Nights by Jim Fisher

If the blackened ocean has got you blue,
And the blackened land, and the black air too,
And the black-crowned heron on the fishin' pier
Ain't here no more, flapped to Timbuktu –
If your blue's so thick it stains right through
Your blood-brain barrier to the moody glue,
And the seagull crossing the Gulf's nightmare
Bears a message for you – receive it here:

Hoof to Brooklyn, where the grey grove grew,
And the last buck danced to know his ghost.
Walt Whitman would've done the bugalú
If he'd heard the horns in the room, like you.
Drink, and make an offering to your host:
You will know him by the post-horn tattoo.