Evening is falling
messy and in-
distinctly throughout
the universe
now,
and according-
ly, Enie Kleine Nachtmusik
is playing—
tiny floating membranes
and vibrating strings, all
twinkling
imperceptibly, all
transitioning
hastily
from Allegro
to Andante—but
not me.
I refuse
to move
that way.
I am not so rude
as the instruments
which, day
to day, comprise me—
I am so patient
they call me
Doctor Adagio—
that's how slow-
and pre-
cisely
I choose
to do—
everything.
