Throughout your vast, short life (vast in music
and little else), you seem to fail: too poor
to marry Therese, sterile artist
circles and pro jobs tossing their heads, your
musicals kicked out every stage door. Still,
Salieri’s lessons stick. You compose
with fire and gentle wind, creative will
amassing scripts to billow a warehouse.
Just months before death, you perform that lone
concert of your own works. Syphilis and
mercury clawing away, you postpone
study of counterpoint, your brother’s hand
holding yours as you ask to be buried
next to Beethoven. At last you succeed.
Roger Armbrust
January 5,
2013
