Mozart

It has no location
since it moves
along the buzzing and hissing
lifeline of now,
made of a clot of time.

It invades from outside,
gets past cracks in your castle walls
and moves with you as you pass
along the strips of the present.
But it talks to you and dances,
moving up and down in a space
stretched like a web of time.

Oh the dances can be sweeter than sighs,
can quake your human sinew,
webbed over the bones of time,
can gesture gently as if you had eyes
that could envision the thin wires of time.