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| Pixabay |
Dry-cleaning the Suede Guitar
My heart extolled,
discovery by the eight-year-old boy
of the Spanish guitar;
setting his watch
by the chants of the world
before coaching endless births
of wooden, acoustic bodies.
My heart joined
at childhood’s end;
his dare of cosmic laws
waiting to be broken.
Walking endless struts
with midnight at his back,
to never rule the silence
with hollow, electric bodies.
My heart communed,
as he split himself in two,
yet remained
one—double-sided tape.
Magnetic, yin and yang,
din and whisper,
magick fingers divining
dancing, sweating human bodies.
My heart mourns
as now through the firmament;
his will becomes law
as what once happened here,
his own unique frequency
absorbed within
the invisible strings
of spherical, spinning bodies.
The Conquering
It
was planned.
Centuries’
blight and decay
curbed by such true, perfectly produced love.
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| Linda Imbler |
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