.
.
Death. Opens the door at a busy interlude.
What were you thinking of Tchaikovsky,
in the warmth of Italy, fleeing
the sub-arctic snows of Russia?
If I were to flee, I'd take my watercolors
and a block of paper, straddle myself
between the ocean and salt air, painting
clouds and sea creatures with a splash
of color, a wash of India ink.
.
.
.
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