A sound like green, seen, or sheen,
a rasping, straining and ringing—
also round like a flowering,
like glowing and fading.

Sometimes a note thins into a cry
when the bow barely holds the string
and makes the sound
of suffering sweeten.

Sometimes a note will vanish
like the bit of an it that was
and is no more.

Itzhak Perlman’s violin
between lost worlds,
singing sad thoughts without words,

like the open rose of the night,
calling Shoshana, Shulamite,
and I am the Song of Songs.