Look, says the fiddler, we’ll give it one last try. It goes like this!
The dark haired woman at the bar, bare shouldered, tanned
a geometry of curve and fall, is everything that’s missing from this tune
which bleeds into a song, so old and raw it should infect the room
with memories of flesh and tears. I sing the solitary girl
who strolls along the river bank and meets a stranger on the path.
We lay in sport and play/ all through the forepart of the night,
but the way he’s playing it, you’d think we’d gone to separate rooms
and whiled away the hours with Sudoku. The woman at the bar melts
towards her man. Night loiters in the way his hand drifts up her spine.
Blissful, shut-eyed, she doesn’t see him looking straight beyond her
hoping someone else might come walking through the door.
Look, I say, no, look, look over there. That’s how it goes.