of crying violin on cello moonbeams
spending my spinning around
wet, filled eyelets, drumming in my heart,
rising me up, bringing me close,
under a delicate chin,
drawing the bow across my breast,
to a ledge, poses me delicately on a  quiet impasse, brings me
off the edge; varying from key to soft
then growing again,  impossible, so
to describe
orchestrally.