He moves like a wet strip of wood,
Malleable, but impossible to snap.
He bends back and falls forward,
He pivots and makes circles standing
In place, he sways.
It is impossible to know if he is in control or
If he is the one being played. The instrument
Makes itself an appendage or else he glued it
To his body before they came on stage.
They are one. Separation cannot be fathomed.
And then it happens–vibrato, a great crescendo,
An ocean of sound before the silence.
Orpheus stands in a corner, invisible and
Proud. The man bows then becomes just
A man–bones and tissue and sinew and blood–
He will die and the violin will live.
*This poem inspired by Philip Glass and Tim Fain