It is Early or Late for Different People

It’s a Mozart morning—not all of them are—there’s Suor Angelica or Gillespie, Dizzy; Caruso; even Peer Gynt. But this is a dawn for Piano Concerto #23 in A, K 488, it’s second movement breaking my heart the way it first broke it when I was a boy. Dangle a heart—there’s flying in our lives. Drop it like a sucking wave—there’s so much sorrow. A little boy with bandages on his eyes listens beside a record player, A late summer’s day…

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How early did he know himself? Very. Don’t you understand what Mozart does?

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It’s the adagio kills me.

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It is late or early for different people

I am without a name

Others talk in the smoky railway car

Morning sun—the loneliest physics—

My feet shift under the seat

As though my toes

Stitch seams on carpet

How one makes poems from nothing—

A train, a few flickering points—

Don’t cry body, we’re going someplace

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Finnish poet Tua Forsstrom: “Nothing terrifies us more than the godforsaken places”

I don’t know about this

When I think about it—terror and nothing sacred, I think less of the outer world and more about my bones

She would say: godforsaken means bones too…not just ruined orchards…

But the bones invented godforsaken in their private sphere

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Well well

I didn’t have much when I came

Don’t have much now

I do have a well worn record of “Swan Lake” which you can have if you like

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I like black currants

 

 

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