Friday, March 24, 2023


Little violin I'm 
hearing, singing 
in the distance:

despite what I imagine 
to be your sturdy, 
hollow hull 

and those two fantastically 
feminine, swirling-yet-
resolute, f-shaped ear holes, 

I suppose you're 
really nothing 
like a skull—

or, for that matter,
an envelope 

stuffed with some 
brutally honest letter. 

to me, at this 
moment, you are more 
like a shelter—
a dark and dusty 
room in the cellar 

where exactly one
determined writer 

and his husk 
of old desk can 
just barely fit 

(provided he 
sits hunched 
uncomfortably enough)

hoping to scribble 
out a new and 
desperate poem

frenetically inspired 
by your abstract, 
distant singing, 

enchanted by 
melody's lack 
of a metaphor, 

and fantastically