by Hilery Thomas

with cigarettes and coffee

sitting with Mozart, we discuss
meditation, quality of life,
and the lazy science of smoke

his sick face as he confesses his
funeral march to Solierei,
huge music translated
in a green whisper
the scratch of a quill

steam from the coffee
cradled in weak slanting sunlight
the day's first pangs of hunger
my wilting narcissus
evening bluing the living room walls

Mozart is dead, the violins
are dancing underwater
an oboe sobs
the chorus dreams of
cold, dark sleep and a very
heavy blanket.