driving that last back road to home,
splayed wheels over potholes,
the grip of the tires over blacktop and black ice,
there was this concert on the radio
a finnish pianist likened mozart melodies to the ease of divine inspiration,
and wolfgang himself resounded with the clarity of a winter star
parting the new jersey winter cloud cover;
amedeus amusing himself by teasing light into mid-winter darkness
that night was full of bach for stability or bedtime prayer
and brahms either for romance or for a terribly comfortable bed
full of pillows, fleece, and down
and handel for that moment before sleep when one makes mental lists,
organizing and compartmentalizing thoughts into managable clumps
to make room for sleep
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