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The Fiddler 

Catgut string
The rosin of the bow
Drawn upon the bridge
A howling, a growl

In the hall
The sun stretches, yawning
Through the glass
Pane upon pane

Sun dawning upon
The floor
The end of night

Given to frivolity
Celebration gone stale
The pale of morning
Filtered through glass

Scratched and needing
To be cleaned
The gleam of the violin
The polished body

Of red
The woods come
The call is made

By the fiddler
He extracts a payment
Made exact
By the precision of the dance

Chance made real
The dues paid by these
Who must stretch and move
A nocturnal dream

Given to
Fits and starts:
The morning as payday

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Steve Brackenbury

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