of the day attends to me again:
rich late winter afternoon fills up
my eyes with the voluminousness
of foreseeable demise: it is no secret
that it will be dark. But now the light
is magisterially parked in Brahms –
achieving one last grand C major
melody: soon it will be paler Debussy,
and then descend to purple Mahler:
after that, well, it depends: my
interfering heart and mind will collar
night into whatever fantasy in
whose creation they have not
informed me yet they will collude.
Music might be guillotined entirely:
lately they’ve been reaching
for the inharmoniously rude.
It is the final day of January after all.
February may decide it needs
its messy say. Heads may fall.