this bough-like arm is a man’s
clasped ’cross your
back.

the cellist strikes
his pose;

makes to creaking
strums as in manic
throes

of a furore, gentle struck,
framed in flickers of you

spitting golden blue hum
and plucked one by
one

through blizzards of spray,
as the bow’s

unfastened strings
snap from lash to
lash

and silently thrash
at this

arm, bough-like,
this man’s,
clasped.