Friday, November 09, 2007

New Poem: Musician


the door is ajar, an entrance offered
while darkness creeps across mirrors
whose names have been misplaced

all the shadows gather as one, united
in their forgetting; nag champa drifts
in the room where one man kneels

surely there are prayers, ripened fruits
eaten as sacrifice, juice dripping down
his chin, soft voices whispering in corners

an oil lamp gives light that cannot
be grasped, flickers and trembles, light
is never what it seems, and more

the man picks up a violin, cold strings
groan beneath the bow; solitude is somber
in the best nights, and yet, and yet

he chases the ghosts from the room, closes
the door; he finds the music so long lost
and opens his heart to the night

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Dig it, Bill.