For the Electric Fiddle Player at the Atlanta Underground
Angel playing the devil's strings
flying on invisible wings,
high with the crashing melody scraping and bowing
but tethered by wires to a screaming black box,
all swinging hair and eyes closed
against any watchers -- like me:
Pinned where I stood,
dazed by the harsh music,
and whipped violently in it
like your long blond hair.
You never saw me,
so wrapped in your sound,
even when I knelt at your feet
to put all my change
and a few crumpled dollars
into your hat.
Then I was pulled away from you,
and imagined I heard you everywhere,
around corners and beyond blues singers
but you were gone
up to street level, up and up,
ascending while I prowled underground
looking for some trace of your
damned, heavenly soul.
(2/28/95)
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