the notes fly past the pillow
and hurtle down stairs
where the sodding proper manuscript waits
buried mid-mulch on the music shelves
by the bench.
i can make it that far with slits for eyes
enough to jot down the code
dit dit dash every good boy does fine
some wavy chordish looking blots for bass.
harmonic hints. not much to go on.
but enough for trying it out.
like riding a new trike.
you know how it's going to go but
there's no substitute for taking a spin.
and that's why the piano plays
at dark forty around here.
it's not exactly because we can't sleep.
but the effect is the same.
i'd like to think there's genius
in hearing notes and writing them down
but it doesn't take enough agony.
and no one will hear it, except the ones
with pillows over their heads.
but when it all comes right--
when what is in play
is what came to mind--
then what else is there?
other than other dreams, of course,
and others' dreams...
and the rest of life,
which is, still, all of it, music.