By Christopher Lake
Date: 16 February 2001
The Guitarist Plays
The guitarist plays--a dizzying run
Across ebony fretboard and silver
Strings. I am the hearer. I hear the dun
That is your hair; your face, perfect, demure--
All in this (perfect also) symmetry
Of sound. Ah but if I could pull you from it,
Make you a leaf once fallen from a tree,
I would then be free to possess, to sit
And look upon what I might call mine until
The season must end. Oh would I were this
Guitarist, for he creates sound and still
Gives life to you. As vine clings to trellis,
You grasp him, up he holds you. So I say
Stop it not--save my life cease too this day.
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