YOUR bow swept over a string, and a long low note
quivered to the air.
(A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child perfect
learning to suck milk.)
Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering
and wild.
(All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday afternoon
in the hills with their lovers.)
POEM CUTS WIDE
TO CONNECT LIFE,
TRYING TO HIDE
TODAY’S CULTURE DIVE………….KUBELIK