This morning sky is full
of many violins.
An enormous symphony . I've slept until
mid-day, and my dreams are still
with me.
Last night,
there was a movie where a man copes
with
great grief. In an empty concert
hall, he sits on a chair in the center
of the stage
and plays the saw. Just the man, the
saw, and the bow.
Wonderful, alien, underwater
sounds came out. Filled everything.
As though
he could be
cut in half.
When I wake up enough to understand
that the sky's violins are
but constant, whirling tornado
warning sirens, I hear the winds come
on like
a railroad car. I feel the thunder
stick
in my tailbone as the rain
beats the glass of the window. It all
wants in. And I just sit here, waiting.
It's not that I can't move,
it's that I don't.
That last line. You hit it perfectly. It's one of those impossibly right last lines that would sound wrong in any other context, but given what comes before them, they carry this little click of the inevitable in them.
ReplyDeleteWhen I read it the second time, I realized that the poem tracks the exact opposite of what happens to the cosmonaut in "Another Earth". Did you notice this? From this huge music--violins, a symphony--the sound of the wind when you wake up, still colored with the speaker's dreaminess--the sounds gradually become more cacophanous and ugly as the speaker begins to wake up. Things degrade quickly from music back to that annoying click.
I liked this one. Write another. Tomorrow. Then another the next day. One for every day of the week.