like a nail through the palm of my hand. his violin
sings across the space of my small room reaching
notes and positions I'll never touch again. I distract
myself with pomegranate and Polaroids of
crumbling houses. I distract myself with
British accents and dark chocolate. I distract
myself with words and words and something about
a balcony, a chair, and the breeze off the river.
I distract myself with the pitch of his voice with
the pitch of his words with the plea in his words
with the many ways he has of distracting me but
really all I can hear are the pitch and toss from
that other man's violin bouncing off my scarred white empty
wals.