String Quartet

Where can this dark road lead?

Others approach, unseen faces,

flesh yielding up its heat.

Like mine, their slow steps

steer toward a long and narrow stairway.

The ceaseless flames of war blaze on.

How many bombs hit which country?

The street buries its own cries. Again and again

Bartók’s bowstrings strike the pavement

and whimpers choke to gasps.

Outside a high window, a pale form

limp as a hanging corpse,

but it’s just laundry. The lights of cars

dazzle past and don’t come back.

Whatever’s seen must move.

The eyes of passersby behold me only once.

My hands swing left and right, one foot after the other,

four stringed instruments at different pitch.

Walking melds their notes.

Voltage spikes along the street,

pulsing at my swollen brain.

When my head clears,

Bartók’s face appears,

his leveled gaze slicing

straight through my body

toward all that lies beyond,

its shadows and its gloom.