Motifs fly, float, snagged only by
the bobbin heads of bows,
strung together themes:
no seams show
Pluck motives out of thin air
As needed. Spin their
light, their smoky sugar
into silk
caught in the undertone
That twine, twained,
will chime as steel, wind
a varnished yarn of
violent velocity across
artfully warped wood
The shell-shocked cello, so long
supportive, can no longer bear the argument
and goes its own way
leaving the viola (so long hung
low-slung, hammock-like
between these woods and strings)
taut suddenly between opposing fictions
Lines exposed, it scurries for cover,
seeks middle ground and,
punting, counter to each line,
finds no hiding place,
forms uneasy alliances with high
and low in turn
until it finally aligns with its kind
(the shouldered burdens, not
the leg-clasped lover) and blends a
sleight of hand
The tapestry reels downstage
at warp speed, ravels at the speed of sound,
each wooden shell resonant of centuries,
each hair and gut a husky plea
for resin in time and beyond it