it must be alright
to stop
the irritable reaching, and just
enjoy the night;
to soak a while in Epsom
and put balm
on all your blisters,
then tan
for far too long
in front of the television.
A few scented candles
might
be appropriate,
and a little soft music
to drown out the sound
of all the innovations
you dimly know
you should be making,
even as you feel
the internal untying
of thousands
of taught, soaking strands
of gray rope.
You think:
who am I to reach
for more
than I can hold?
God knows—
even Bach,
despite all his
brilliant leaping,
sooner or later
would always
fall back
on the same old
dozen notes.
