WRITING
       
                 
 

Light interlude

They have something to do with violins,
the flicking insects collected
on these two squares of light,
the upper windows of the old farmhouse.
Thousands from the dark countryside,
they strain here toward
the bare bulb that dangles
in the center of the room;
and only the music of their pop
against glass and scrape
over screens hints why;
violins, vi-
olins, why do they insist
on the violins?

And when the man within
closes his book and leaves, flick-
ing out the light, is it
the dark face of God
that knows what becomes
of them and their music?

 

© Bill Jungels

  go to walker   Go to Walker in the City. Walking every block of Buffalo, NY  
             
     

Go to Private, a poem reflecting on the legacy of
abu-gharib

 
             
          Read a letter to a college news reportero on issues of immigration