the unscrupulous player will twist my
straining tautness until, with a too-sudden
anticipation, he breaks me dead.
but i must be broken only as a horse:
ever so patiently bended and stretched
by a gentle, limit-comprehensive master
for each refrain's one tuning.
he knows that i may only comply briefly--
a half an hour, perhaps to begin--before
rebelling lazily to my worn, familiar
no dog of any age learns immediately,
as any callous-fingered musician
will tell you.
but when his hands, string-like, exercise
a long-suffering felt only in owner and
object, he may, i know, lift my
stubbornest self to more fully-stepped, less
staffed peaks, an altitude where no
instrumentalist even may breathe--
to melodically soar over a wind of skylessly
forgetful, pained months now passed,
a being i both of lowing lows