She covered the violinist's hand,
and the tawny frieze

hung like a magician's handkerchief,
the fingers drained of blood,

the bones, the skinny bones,
almost collapsed.

Crouching, the woman tried to regain
the violin, now queerly blue.

I slept on, and clouds whittled
my thoughts. The purple dreams

and the ivory dreams sat quietly in front of me.
Floors rose up quickly to a ceiling

that bulged, and door frames started buckling
under all that weight from the incessant trills.