The Violin,
Now lift it, lower it,
close the case, press
each loose chrome clip,
feel each tightening click.
He’d held down, controlled
sounds on its neck, unseen
resin flaking off, fingerprints
drying too quickly to see,
now its body’s snug, at rest
inside the blue velvet,
and inside the gleam of varnish
where darkness is hidden,
where tunes came from,
a white-wood heart
so few consider,
know is there.
Bob Cooper
(who's not yet at all sure about the title...
but who seems loath to give more information!)
an occasional poem
and all comments welcome!
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