Variation (I am essentially just writing out different drafts - I want to tighten this but must go to bed soon.)

4.

At night, your string black chords into rotting wood;

the bow sings across shadows, fluttering like butterflies

folding and unfolding their blue wings, like a fan

serenading the sweaty necks of black-haired ladies.

Palms caress palms; notes linger over purple chairs,

as the ladies, still unpluckable, hover, stoccato around the table.

5.

You ponder the music in that piece of skin:

Would it be soft and melodic, or dissonant, like the works of Shoenberg?

You flex your fingers, tauten the strings.

Is there music in that piece of skin?