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PN Review 276
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This poem is taken from PN Review 8, Volume 5 Number 4, July - September 1979.

Five Thoughts of the Violinist Lawrence Sail

Proudly I jut across the lights,
the violin and its eighty-four parts
pouched between chin and shoulder-blade.
We fit exactly: my right arm,
double-jointed, is tipped with pearl.
Down tracks of gut and steel I sight
my left hand scrolled to match the wood.

But here he comes-my alter ego,
the fearsome cripple who each night
repacks his weathered limbs in velvet
and falters down the city tunnels:
a busker bundled off his pitch
with nothing but a wavering echo
to see him to the end of darkness.

Before a note is played
solo I orchestrate

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