Love! you dealt a bitter blow –
You lay me cross the mortal plains,
Bedewed, bedimmed amongst a show
Of tearful clouds: eternal rains
To weep at my enduring foe
Of harsh reality – searing pains of
Destiny: dependable propensity
To fool myself repeatedly
That I could ever triumph over love!
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
Cleaning Out the Lyre
Pour fifteen grains of rice into your hand
and guide the ice-white, jumping chips to the face
of your lyre, then to the cheekbone band,
a silhouette. Then in the f-hole lace—
yes, inside, the lining of willow-wood—clean,
clean rice. The dust's loose. The voice of rain
moves the trees that bow to the silver-green
lake where a horse and cart's loaded with chains
to secure the carp along the river road
and past the shop where Jean Baptiste's artists
plane the willow and sand the maple good
for ribs. Some unbraid white horsehair with mist
they spit, and a bone comb. Then they stretch,
unwrapping bread and cheese over a sketch.
by Tyler Mills
and guide the ice-white, jumping chips to the face
of your lyre, then to the cheekbone band,
a silhouette. Then in the f-hole lace—
yes, inside, the lining of willow-wood—clean,
clean rice. The dust's loose. The voice of rain
moves the trees that bow to the silver-green
lake where a horse and cart's loaded with chains
to secure the carp along the river road
and past the shop where Jean Baptiste's artists
plane the willow and sand the maple good
for ribs. Some unbraid white horsehair with mist
they spit, and a bone comb. Then they stretch,
unwrapping bread and cheese over a sketch.
by Tyler Mills
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