it's alright to call it
a night—
to tan
for ten-to-twenty
in front of the TV,
to give those ropy
muscles an
Epsom salt soak,
to raise your palms
and kiss
each majestic,
and mountainous peak
of their blisters.
It's no joke
to do the easy thing
and cue up some music
you already know,
light a few candles
and keep repeating
as they glow
that greatness
is transient,
and sometimes
genius is
ad-hoc—that even
the illimitable
Johann Sebastian Bach,
despite all his leaps
toward the glory
of God, still would fall
back on the same
dozen notes.
