.. .. ..

torrential rains
have soaked these thoughts from wet til grey,
they cling, but now beneath a moonless sky,
I grab shadows off of chestnut trees that sway,
shifting patterns, lifting streetlamps into
chiaroscuroed lines, depicting warmth and fullness,
toasting midnight stillness with a buttered tone,
with not much on my skin but open air, and cooler now,
the smell of rain still trapped within a sound
and its extension, one lone violin, lifting darkness
from this dampened prayer by squeezing through an open window,
Morricone's "Once Upon a Time in America" not far behind,
and slicing solitudes that carry me along
towards a sense of place that is not here-nor-there,
each note within a pace of thought,
their subtle slide of minor-into-major notes

after his concert, four days ago,
I met V in between the crowds behind the stage,
his ordinary stature, his lack of words, his violin,
his silent expectations, how I searched his eyes
for something more, a vulnerability or contradiction,
some original complexities to unwind
but could not find until much later,
near the chestnut shadows
where I recalled
that it was only
when he played

his music
was the thing
that ripped
my heart apart
and nothing more

"Pleasure is a praying mantis..."
(Nikos Kazantzakis)