I've heard that Mozart
is pink, startling hi-lite
like laughter in the darkness
the blood of the sunset
heir to the throne of jesters.

The balls of his feet
stroke like plumes at the floor
his violins carving
a path out of strawberry seeds.
And that was your childhood:
jelly beans and sherbert
the tang of oranges and
the orchestra like arms to cuddle
and watch the willful child.

Why add the voices? Why add
the mass, the final goodbye
the finite, "Amen"? It wasn't theirs.
Pedophiles ate the Little Genius
and his pink melodies.
The last that we know
is unmarked; the saprophyte
and his floorless masterpiece.