as if trying to forget what keys you inked
or with which instrument
or every time those gold-edged paper whispers
walled our raw rehearsals
for the candelabra-lighted concert nights.
As recompense I have but minuets,
sonatas, operas, symphonies, and scores
all performed in dreamtime rhythms
where our marriage bed complexities
take hurried bows and exit to applause.
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