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Sonato for Piano and Violin in G, K 301

My tie is like a dog’s tongue, flapping.

It speaks in strange syllables

that sound the way old hate tastes.

Ask Bill in accounting (he’s the one selling them to kids).

But my tie doesn’t speak; it stares.

But this is not an answer.

Mornings can’t stare because their eyes are half-closed.

The smoke-light of mist shimmers;

it calls us to tea

which will taste of steeped light.

I will have to drink it to understand how to be warm.

When I bend to sip, dampness will spread up

the silken mass centering my chest, approaching,

always, my tongue, my tongue.