文章基本信息

Black Violinist

Levine, Mark

If I seem familiar to you, the reason may be that I

am his disciple, though you know not

of whom I speak, and I am called on to do all

my diminished powers allow

to prevent you from learning of him.

He is tall and wears a blue rain jacket.

He has a second set of heavy bracelets.

His dog leads him through the woods to a distant clearing

where he burns debris. Sometimes he crawls into the mouths

of the sick and provokes remarkable speech.

Sometimes he insists on silence.

In each room of his house the same painting hangs

on the west-facing wall, though these are not the "same"

in the sense of exact likeness. The painting has a severe

flesh-tone and involves a boy with a drum

whose uniform is missing two gold buttons.

The boy is looking at his hands, his slender pleading hands.

And now the familiar music has returned.

The black violinist is playing a minuet on the corner.

I find it distracting; it's hard enough to hear

the traffic above the sounds from the kennel next door.

It's Monday, and one might guess that the animals

know the veterinarian is expected today.

I am expecting someone, too.

When the car pulls up to the stone curb beneath my window

I want to see what he brought with him this time.

I want to see what is stuffed in the trunk.

That's a good way to feel something, if you're not afraid.

That noise you hear is his bad knee, an old

gaming injury which sometimes acts up

when he walks through you.