Mozart's Bones

For the ceremony of human perfection,
The communion of bewildered hearts,
He must annihilate the world and himself,
And in that blessed death
Is freedom and love.
To the last year, let music ascend
Ever higher, plumb ever deeper,
Simplest and most serene.

His ear, attuned to magnificent phantoms,
Sounds the deep with infant glee;
Harlequin skips onstage and capers
In the mournful city of masked balls.
Up and down he paces in his room,
Restlessly prancing, miming, and fiddling,
Driven to and fro by dark persuasions,
Chortling maniac with nowhere to go.

This is life
Without “biographies”,
“Turning points” or “stages”,
This is life,
Inhaling and exhaling,
Knowing it must one day be no more.
Welcome to the ludicrous,
The bizarre.
Welcome to the changing moods
Of unicorns and porcupines.
This is life,
Unbearable concision and rapidity.

Poor little great little Mozart,
Death wants to shake your hand!
Your father is standing behind you,
In an undertaker’s coat.
Into the unmarked grave
Of a perfect symphony,
You go!

Only the tender can be so cruel,
And the calm so mad;
Sweet buffoon, celebrate the High Mass
Of a cackling farce,
And let the strains of divertimento
Absolve you.