MOZART MAKES
WHERE NOW
I am
alive—pandora-like, and how
eye-awed young;
meticulously tuned,
tight white crisp
as canvas, stretched salt, sunned,
or sized to brush
strokes, tender tickled
broad and fibered
deep, repeated
endless back, far
before the thought of white
receptive me
could soon
conceive
how Mozart made
where then I was alive.
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