See that spider’s web,
woven on the green fuse box?
It’s fly hangs, encased.
I worry that the spider
has moved on too fast, regrets.
THE BOY, KANDINSKY, 1866
In Odessa, at summersend the cello sang scarlet
between his knees, and the piano notes were sugar cubes.
Once, he saw his own voice, a citrine kite, a woodwind
sailing over the Potemkin steps.
Listen, he whispered.
The August street silent at just dusk.
The deepblue slanting light is humming.
Yes, I said. I see.
At the harbor, salt ships and yellow sky.
Don’t look, he said, enter.