mid-dream,

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, 

out there.

which is, still,  all of it, music.