Conversing with Mozart: Jedno

I hung him
by my bed
on a long, frazzled line
where I clipped him
on a clothes pin
so he was angled just so
I could ask him what I wanted
as he wept for dear Praha
(we have that in common)

I asked him one night
late, the ugly hours
what it meant to make
that kind of music
and he told me this:

There is no music.
There is no music
like how the wind moves
nor a higher note of perfection
than fall of sun into night
And If I stole from anyone
it was the innocence of love
I just touched the keys
and tried to remember a name
a taste of earth
and the colors of mist that hang
But remember this
there is no music
here
but there will be
and, oh, how we will dance.