by Alan Britt
As I sit here today
I cannot say
if the east side
gets better sun
than the maple-infested west side
of my brain.
As I sit here today
I cannot say
whether or not
your closest confidant
is Iago
or someone
resembling him.
We should never forget Beethoven’s violins
complaining in his deaf quartets.
Ludwig hammered those strings
until they bled all over his music sheets.
And as Ludwig sits here today,
he cannot say
if Easter egg hunts are yet permitted
in the Count’s courtyard.
Still, the sun blazes like a snail
across our twin foreheads.
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Good stuff, particularly liked the idea of Beethoven hammering the strings.
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