Tuesday, December 16, 2014

BEETHOVEN'S FIFTH

Let's say—at first,
upon 

waking—his mind 
was a mass 

of just—
nondescript,

never-
ending clouds. Then—

came a little sound.
Quick—

what was the 
French word for clouds? 

Suddenly—
nuages,
thick, clotting

lemon-gilded 

commencing—
rolling,  
dancing—perhaps

heliotrope-
dappled—surprisingly 

callously
gave way—to larger,
less-

wonderful words,
clumped
into far more 

familiar 
Germanic sequences—each cadencing 

with the electrified thud—of
everything!
that sounded so pretty

a whisper ago,
now just sounding 
pretty—out

there
and off base.

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