Modigliani's Cellist
       

He plays to the violet walls,
to the window’s curly brown shadows
and to the mirror that looks on.

Colors that slide down the walls
murky and shapeless.

Is it a reverie or a sob—?
On this warm night
someone has made him feel tender, brutal.

As the bow’s hot quiver
cracks through the wood—

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Copyright © 2014 Barbara Siegel Carlson All rights reserved
from Fire Road
Dream Horse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission