A Symphony In Paris Among The Brokenhearted

there: among the
discarded strings and strongscented
varnish oils hands
stained and covered with dust he entered-

there: the violinists was tuning
his own mahogany
lover knowing each
sound and chord by the
note made after living his
own tautness and hanging
off the spaces between the music.
the violinist.
raveneyed Frenchman.

and there: he dusted
his hands and tall
as night or fireflies
trapped in the trees lining
the streets last night
he had seen himself
in the Seine from a
bridge too low to leap
from and Notre Dame
towered perceptively
shadowed making him
all as evening in that same dying blue.

he heard

and ran from the
river twisting falling
from street to doorway. scented of bread
and fruit of the back markets
of the young farmers in town for a night. like American soldiers.
and the symphony hall.
tuning strings and attaching life to life.

(once during the war a tousleblonde American had wandered in weaving and notdrunk while the orchestra tuned and the violinists waited eyes the same color as river which is not a color
but more a sound.)

He closes the heavy
Doors ignoring finely
dressed gentlemen and their plump
wives back among the
broken things where he feels most
At home and across his face the scars of violin strings he listens.

There: the movement is
Starting. He is cold but it
Really does not