Classic Poem

The violin plays with the tide
coming in,
with water rushing over sand,
a hand held over power.
The sea bows back.
It is a musical interaction, an intersection of

waves up, waves down and up. Love rubs like
wet seaweed over rocks.
This goes on until a resemblance grows
between the chin and the violin.
Where they scrape
something else takes their place, a

sitting-in of
deep-sea gravity
or perhaps an undertow,
a pulling-me-out-through-the-ears.

Music could be a tuba pretending to be
a tall tree talking to itself about wind

or the crash of cymbals and drums
imitating tables
that reach the seabeds with their legs.

Always the same scale.
In the mornings our longings dress up
for love. First they take a quick dip
of deep resentment.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 186. no. 1, April 2005. Used with permission.