Tuesday, September 29, 2020

The Four Strings On Her Violin.




A tunnel, in which she flitted like a bat with no more than a candle
and a breath of wind coming from somewhere further along,
where heart will explore in search of.............................................
of darkness; with limited life; search until pointlessness.

Second: a meteorites tail blazed across her face, made her magnificent.
All the faces in the auditorium were bulbs, all switched on, all magnificent;
and some cried, and the tears were seeds of her light.

Third, sandy beach: contrary, mix of gleam and dull gray; saw edge,
bilingual, grit between the strings, speckled, pocked. And its sharp edge
of sunlit sea.

Fourth, the arc of a day. From cumulus clouds down to the domes
and spires of the city, she flew time measured in the passing of the sun:
the sharpening and blunting of light. Clouds here and there interspersed
with the blueness of infinity, and day, the unit of our lives, lived in the
sound she was creating right there, in front of us.

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