Summer garden of moth wings. Dusk gown of
specks of black.
Night encroaches, circle moon, breathe the
in a mouthing.
A violinist in a frock coat, maestro of the dark.
He plays the music,
a song- dripping down a rabbit warren,
among the grass, dew dripping like a candle’s wax.
And the maestro, well past aging, and his fingers
yet with the bow bounces the flesh of the strings.
plumb into the hollows, stoop over and kiss the
of shadows. Dare into the root of the soil of
a flower petal.
He walks in the music, but the night isn’t noticing,
asleep in longevity. Lying down. And the voice of
nothing, tin white
(a bone white light, silence in a song).
Copyright © 03/01/17 lance sheridan®