MOZART
whistles. . . at
the dawn dumpster, disdaining mere
noise, careful
with bottle and bag,
a simple aria
oboe calls up brightly common
things and vivid
colors: wine-reds, cheese-golds,
apple-greens,
bread-browns and garlic-morning-breaths.
And Nanerl, off
the leash, in the quick circles
About the mystic
flute, wags us joy in freedom,
Yips delight in
novel new: rat, rag, raccoon!
No rondo now
mingles with parental gloom, for
tomorrow’s trios
free us; while he, seated
at my Yamaha,
makes the measured-simple soon sublime.
Though I Cole
Porter sing, day and night, revived,
it’s Mozart makes
where now I am alive.
(Clicking on photos enlarges them.)
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