evil clings to hair
like crusty foulers
on a boat hull
like spells
in a witch pot
boiling over
brewing filaments
that blaze hot
bewildering eyes
into eighth notes
with violent edge
Johann van
beating drunken
time signatures
into his son’s
perception
leaving Ludwig
straining to hear
music blowing
lightly
across tessellated floors
until barber’s broom
sweeps it under
evening mass
the time when lead pipes
whisper joy
under the stained glass
of a blind God