Song on the subway

Rush-hour on the A train. A blind man 

  staggers forth, his cane tapping lightly 

  down the aisle. He leans against the door, 

raises a violin to chin, and says I’m sorry 

  to bother you, folks. But please. Just listen. 

  And it kills me, the word sorry. As if something like music 

should be forgiven. He nuzzles into the wood like a lover, 

  inhales, and at the first slow stroke, the crescendo 

   seeps through our skin like warm water, we      

who have nothing but destinations, who dream of light 

  but descend into the mouths of tunnels, searching. 

   Beads of sweat fall from his brow, making dark roses 

on the instrument. His head swooning to each chord 

  exhaled through the hollow torso. The woman beside me 

   has put down her book, closed her eyes, the baby 

has stopped crying, the cop has sat down, and I know 

  this train is too fast for dreaming, that these iron jaws 

   will always open to swallow a smile already lost. 

How insufficient the memory, to fail before death. 

   how will we hear these notes when the train slides 

    into the yard, the lights turned out, and the song 

lingers with breaths rising from empty seats? 

  I know I am too human to praise what is fading. 

    But for now, I just want to listen as the train fills 

completely with warm water, and we are all 

  swimming slowly toward the man with Mozart 

   flowing from his hands. I want nothing 

but to put my fingers inside his mouth, 

  let that prayer hum through my veins. 

   I want to crawl into the hole in his violin. 

I want to sleep there 

                           until my flesh 

                                                  becomes music.