When I met Vivaldi it was dark,



a ragman lashed his horse’s bells,



streets tilted into slow wind tunnels,







no, it was another night, in winter,



snow as soft as opium, two winoes wassailed



down an alley through a milk truck’s ruts,







in the subways a violin was whistling



down chrome tracks, past cobalt semaphores,



rats and pennies underneath the 3rd rail . . .







Has it never been so quiet that you’ve heard



the manhole covers rumble when the El goes overhead?



Icicles growing? Could you tell the difference



between the sound of filaments in light bulbs



burning down, and a dulcimer played in a padded cell?







A meager music hovers everywhere:



at mouths of drains, echoing stairwells



where girls in muslin disappear



whispering “allegro.”







When I closed my eyes,



less than a ghost,



Vivaldi cupped a mouth harp



like a match against the wind.





