Mozart's Ghost

Silence.

The whistle of pillow feathers, like
Sand falling, murmurs.

The whir of fans, torque minima.

The severity of quiet.

There are no spirits to blow secrets on

the sides of my neck. There is no bleating
Of a goat. And there is no more of
Your singing.

Only the enormity of absence,

Sky depriving senses.

These walls which echoed the first split

Of atom, the first collapse of ice that day
Your slender fingers led its first dance
Of piano; these witness walls
which were audience to an
Orchestration of progressions
Luminescent as hope’s soul,
Chorus after chorus, Higher notes, bidding time,
Like winter’s ant, before the detonation
Of a crescendo -
These huge-eared walls
Now return
Now of your dust,
Not a rustle of a hand.

I listen to the noise of Nothing, and find in it Everything - Color, laughter, smoke, A silhouette impression In the form of a note.