Fiddler

I’ve grown tired of roofs, my life
Uncertain as the color pink in a dawn
Of shifting hues. Earlier, a little after
The witching hour until a little before
Sunup, I played and played
The Devil’s Trill Sonata, with
The signature mistiness of my
Improvisations, snapping two stings.
Penniless, I couldn’t replace those
Strings, so I gave my violin to the
Vagabond who flashed me his
Black-toothed grin. I climbed to be
On top of this pole and, yearning
For the moon, I felt myself to be
The sacramental wafer, the pavement
Below like a tongue yearning for
Communion.