Strangeness, Cold Front, Weird Mists

AT AN CUASAN
an old fiddler with
a haunting face,
jack o lantern jolly and
candlelit
talked of things
that happened
in my country:

the things we all know
happen, but rarely see

things we were unaware
of, his personal tales

and the thing they say no one expected,
which riddled him
like termites

and it seems he tried,
in telling, to eject some
ghost or emotion
from us, but
whether fear
or sympathy was projected,
we were blind
to understand

but hard we listened
to his voice, his fiddle too.
like the Acheron boatman,
he knew what was
ahead, where we were
guessing darkly

his Pirandello eyes
only closed
to play a reel;
his hands, still stabbing
beauty from the aged
singing wood.