It seems so sometimes,
Mozart on a Monday.
Schubert in a drizzle.
Say Vivaldi’s Four Seasons,
say exactly the one you’re
sitting at the lake in
the small radio through
the half-opened window
fading, barely on
say autumn settles
for a yellow moment
in the mottled wood
and an oboe d’amore
mourns and beckons
on the other shore.
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