She soars through the violin:
swaying, bowing; strings
undercutting low, shimmering
high; communicates emotion
from Prokofiev, the concerto.

The second movement punctuated
and melodic washes over the
normal day of the audience,
pushes existence into artistic
slant, a hypnotic pull—casting.

The soloist knows the magic
| wields the wand |
the conductor, the orchestra:
conspirators—the audience:
defenseless, willing to be

stolen away. Bliss lies in the
sumptuous strings of the
Devil’s instrument–sensuous.
All the demons come out
of hiding to cavort in the

last movement; everyone dances,
swoons. The theater pounds,
castanets clapping. The expressive
lines ring out. The vibrations excite,
even as the timpani thud the loud stop—

the swelling applause carries the spell
through the exits, into the quiet streets.

*[ WSB ]_.