1

    And then he would lift this finest

    of furniture to his big left shoulder

    and tuck¹ it in and draw the bow

    so carefully as to make the music

    almost visible on the air. And play

    and play until a whole roomful of the sad

    relatives mourned. They knew this was

    drawing of blood， threading and rethreading

    the needle. They saw even in my father's

    face how well he understood the pain

    he put them to——his raw， red cheek

    pressed against the cheek of the wood . . .

    2

    And in one stroke he brings the hammer

    down， like mercy， so that the young bull's

    legs suddenly fly out from under it . . .

    While in the dream he is the good angel

    in Chagall， the great ghost of his body

    like light over the town. The violin

    sustains² him. It is pain remembered.

    Either way， I know if I wake up cold，

    and go out into the clear spring night，

    still dark and precise with stars，

    I will feel the wind coming down hard

    like his hand， in fever， on my forehead