Out-of-the-Body Travel

　　by Stanley Plumly

　　 1

　　 And then he would lift this finest

　　 of furniture to his big left shoulder

　　 and tuck it in and draw the bow

　　 so carefully as to make the music

　　 almost visible on the air. And play

　　 and play until a whole roomful of the sad

　　 relatives mourned. They knew this was

　　 drawing of blood， threading and rethreading

　　 the needle. They saw even in my father's

　　 face how well he understood the pain

　　 he put them to--his raw， red cheek

　　 pressed against the cheek of the wood . . .

　　 2

　　 And in one stroke he brings the hammer

　　 down， like mercy， so that the young bull's

　　 legs suddenly fly out from under it . . .

　　 While in the dream he is the good angel

　　 in Chagall， the great ghost of his body

　　 like light over the town. The violin

　　 sustains him. It is pain remembered.

　　 Either way， I know if I wake up cold，

　　 and go out into the clear spring night，

　　 still dark and precise with stars，

　　 I will feel the wind coming down hard

　　 like his hand， in fever， on my forehead