Lute
Curved, inviting, light,
it has the look of antique ships,
a galleon bulge of straight-grained woods.
Fretful cat-gut cords
coiled taut by silver screws
above the calibrated neck
conceal a thousand foot-pound pirouette.
Child of Sirocco and Spain,
veils, fans, brocade, and lace,
olive, vine, and orange surprise,
its plangent sound irrigates the moonlit air
peeks through black-eyed jalousies.
Dowland, Cutting and our solid Bach
crocheted arabesques of tuneful notes
like pearls, rubies, emerald stones,
to pluck or tease from that dark pupil
a winking smile of treble Sun.
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