My Dear Theophilus
(this can be our secret –
a game or puzzle)
Words fail me.
Which is,
of course,
where you begin
How can I not “wax poetic”
when dispassionate prattle fails to ignite
the flame of a candle worth holding?
Still, I pray it is only the finest kind of waxing
and that my words do justice to
Your Music
six hundred twenty-six
Köchels in the catalogue
eighty-eight
Keys on the keyboard
twenty-three
Concertos for piano
feeble attempts to enumerate the innumerable
calculate the incalculable
valuate the invaluable
dreiundzwanzig
Klavierkonzerte
achtundachtzig
Auf der Klaviertastatur
sechshundertsechsundzwanzig
Köchels im Katalog
Even German cannot make
Music
of numbers
mir fehlen die Worte.
Which is,
of course,
where you begin.
defying atrophy 