By James Arthur Holt
The wrist bends, the man waits
penning, waving,
hesitating for no awkward
intention.
The elegance of freedom
is the boasting of its being free
Rostropovich,
Chopin/preludes,
Grosse Fuge
The wrist lilts,
bent down bones
tiny trucks of flattened cartilage
bumping to meet the paper,
knuckles strapping
on the old braces
for that abrasive art
of wrestling in and out
of armor.
—
I wrote this in Toronto on Jan. 10, 1989,
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