The Guitar
        (After Lorca)

The guitar
begins to cry again.
Dawn's cup
is smashed: it bleeds
a bright wine stain.
The guitar
begins to cry again.

It won't shut up.
It can't shut up.
Abacus
of the lugubrious,
methodical totter-
up of teardrop beads:
rain on the water,
snowflakes on a plain...

It wants what's far.
It cries,
wheed les and wails—
desert forever
parched for some
cool blossom,
targetless dart...
(Some poor bird's eyes
glaze over.)
Gone, guitar,
out of itself: your heart
still needled by five nails.

Tweet

Copyright © 2017 Austin Allen All rights reserved
from Pleasures of the Game
The Waywiser Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission