He walks along in personal space
- now - worry a lot,
because there’s a violin case in his left
hand.
You never know what’s in a case like that!?
The man stands up and grunts, and starts.
He lightens up strings
as if Bach is here, now,
in present tense: string-tense: a sigh.
Hear sixty three repeating bases,
respectful, alert:
stabbing a bow;
roundabout bow
of melody, rhythm and chord.
Like Hopkins he springs
triumphantly tragic;
grief in Bach’s pain!
Alone! And hear an elbow pull
become scratched - a touch
of homecoming earth-time;
heavenly business.
A solitary man gyrates
and puppets in dance,
grieving, he’s busy,
- a lonely string screams:
so catching and real – Bach’s wife’s death.
Let’s grieve like a Bach;
screech in a bow-string,
grieving vibration.
But Bach is up now – lifting now,
envisioning hope.
Play us to ecstasy:
Heaven and Earth!
Has anything changed since last breath?
A man and his bow,
back in its case, away, walking away
from intimate personal space.
