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music came from my temples you
said transferring the healing tips
of your fingers having nursed me
through early investments others
held my breast & its blue notes cried
out for copying down theyre gone
like me a mad world indeed that
sets up saints & uses love in
a passing phrase for fiscal gain
barred from you now deserving the
pangs yet a body threatens to
break through yet lucky i had my
arteries done when i could i
called my early work the stuff of
banjos on morning radio
stuffing the market cruelly de
dicating the fully fledged to
an early accomplice the word
from my specialist bodes well fan
ning my own fevers & futures
flutes are in & cellos old heart
machines still gladden composers
minds impure as the driven sled
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