Sung Out of Range

I steal

this violin makes a sound about love or death and yet

is in a simple physicality

I steal

this hand moves over the settled body

reclined and oblivious to the violin’s physics

I steal

my love, the sounds of the world are made in the

caves of the solitary mind but heard only

in the presence of others

I steal

when the violin rushes or drags its notes along

you are a body of it curved into the melisma

I steal


you

what you do not know about the science of it

will keep the sound alive as that wet sleeve that

cocoons

you

in that sharp edge of physical prosody

stealing then that sound which wires life to it’s own

chamber of notes playing outward as a bath of leaves

in their variegated shades.