A Fading Orchestra

Slender sore throb of vibrato in delta marshes.
I tune the strings, plucking notes sharp and flat
high C electric at the bridge, dips my shoulder.
Baritone G flat grumbles in the red shell of my knee.

The orchestra plays out of tune.
The orchestra plays in the gap.

Each instrument adjusting rusted brown strings
termite infected sawdust in bass chest.

The orchestra musicians don't need a composer,
they don't even need to practice staccato timpani
accompanying piercing piccolo stabs.

Gershwin Rhapsody in Blue:
opens sour and sarcastic clarinet
curves akimbo, loosening the register.

The orchestra Traviatta and Figaro
in my splintered wood.

I become the sunken symphony chamber
clamoring the air with scored sheets falling to feet.

There is no orchestra playing, only notes now.
Each instrument a concave mirror
imploding into a coffin chrysalis.
Musicians smash their bows, crack dripping hands
slicing taut drum skin as it pours out dark vintage.

Echo notes. Mayhem crashes all around
and then the last fading ache
against the pitch black deaf.