Audience of One
The dance begins
a mammoth old flame in a gypsy
jamboree an audience of one
an audience humming at the precipice
at the cold trembling lips
of glory’s autumnal jig
I will not pray to any god
of revelry to no
god of wine or celebration
for the fiddler has no mind
in Bacchic chaos but rather
he strays with the warmth
of his notes he stokes
at the air with a tune
of ageless gristle a pure whine
mantis elbows bracketing his soul
The dance charades
between the common ice
of every step and the slow
meandering warmth the slow purring
air the curtains sway in adoration
and the audience counts its steps
The dance intrudes
The fiddler is the mongrel
The fiddler is the mountain top
The tidal wave The roots of the ageless tree
The fiddler is ten thousand
Buffalo running free