Mahler

It is Because I am Obsessed with the thing.

It overtakes me.

Do I conjure it Out of space, Scratching its Sound on paper In my tilted gazebo?

I only know I Do hear it – there.

I am brushed By the precise Flit of its shadow, Enervated by Each visitation.

Like a fool who knows He is a fool and can Only continue a fool, I appreciate the irony In my superstition.

It comes and goes, Trailing behind Autumn with the heavy Grace of an unspoken Word, an explanation.

My daughter Broken like a toy, Sheet music litters The lawn like confetti After a forced marriage,

And even now….