by those gigantic hands
to the framework that holds me from
below.
The slightest tap upon this rack
can make me quiver into sound.
And when against the cross-pull of the strands
that come and go
I shudder and vibrate,
the whole body of my world resounds.
Yet should I lie slack along all my length
in complete contact with this ground,
nor it nor I would resonate:
there would be no music then.
It is this thing
perversely called a bridge,
that separates
and holds me back
from everything—this hard threshold,
this stumbling block—produces strength,
gives power to strain,
and makes me sing.
Sometimes so vibrant is the pain
that thrills me through, I know
they are stroking me again
(fingers pressing, probing how
to raise my cries up to a scream)
with that delicate, pitiless bow.
How they must be enjoying it now.
(THE STRING OF A FIDDLE)
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