Vivaldi In Vienna by William C. Blome

One of the girls once asked me how many principalities
can share a continent, and I whispered the count is roughly equal
to the number of fingers you can cram into a vagina,
the key thing being there’s always room for at least one more
if you’ve picked the right land or person. I feel the same way
about how many colors spill from a prism, the quantity
of divinity there is in the Trinity, or notes I can write in a measure,
though I admit I’ve not come across many brothers and sisters
who agree with my butt on that score. But I’ve known orphans
who affirm in a heartbeat, sweet minors completely cognizant
of what the hell they were agreeing to, too. (Yet, as I imply,
only a sprinkling of royals and clerics; maybe simpatico kings
and bishops will partner with me here.) I’m trying not to argue
with anyone anymore. I only keep wondering over and over
why it’s been so easy for God to love hearing music not mine;
am I allowed to confess there may be jealousy at play here,
since I’m a guy who’s harmonized anything with everything?

William C. Blome
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such wondrous places as In Between Hangovers, Poetry London, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Phenomenal Literature, and The California Quarterly.
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