Rosin

You do work the same piece
for years even—
until a groove forms:
part necessity
and part habit,
source of friction and music,
the width of the
bow hair, no more
no less;

 

then one day,
before practicing,
it crumbles
in the soft clutch of
its chamois,
the golden-flecked
rosin
breaks into two

 

like the once-precious
egg
of a flightless bird.

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Bio

David Capps is a philosophy professor and poet who lives in New Haven, CT. He is the author of four chapbooks: Poems from the First Voyage (The Nasiona Press, 2019), A Non-Grecian Non-Urn (Yavanika Press, 2019), Colossi (Kelsay Books, 2020), and Wheatfield with a Reaper (Akinoga Press, forthcoming).