Classic Poem

Your brain is a garret
scurrying with gray mice
(mice that were white ere dust touched them gray)
seeking the cheese
you removed from your cupboard.
(I am wrong, as usual.)
Your brain is a tower
clamoring with birds
(such a whirring of wings, the color is blurred)
mocking the discordant chorale
you used to try on your clavier.
(I am wrong, as usual.)
Your brain is a wintry wood on a hill
brooding afar in the solitude
and hearkening the song
(is it snow or a breeze?)
the vast silence essays
with numbed breathing.
(I am wrong, as usual.)
Your brain is a balcony —
isn't it a balcony
waiting for hands below
to bring their crooked veins into tune?
And I the troubadour
who can twang you back to the garden?
(Or am I wrong, as usual?)