SCHUBERT
What did we do when she was gone
for good? Throats clamped shut,
legs of clay, no air,
no air to be had. We slept poorly
and every word became a wound.
We crept around on unsure feet.
Wanting darkness, but not
a chance of salvation. Schubert
is on the music stand. Your hand
picks up the bow. Rosined white,
it creaks across the string. Lips sealed,
you start to search for her.
