From the Fishouse

You came to the desert, illiterate, spirit-ridden,
intending to starve

The sun hand of the violin carving through space
the endless landscape

Acres of ochre, the dust-blue sky,
or the strange young man beside you

peering into “The Man Who Taught William Blake
Painting in His Dreams”

You’re thinking: I am ready to be touched now, ready to be found
He’s thinking: How lost, how endless I feel this afternoon

When will you know:
all night: sounds

Violet’s brief engines
The violin’s empty stomach resonates

Music a scar unraveling in four strings
An army of hungry notes shiver down

You came to the desert intending to starve so starve