AT MIRROR LAKE

photo: ralph murre

AT MIRROR LAKE 

 by Bruce Taylor       

The sun rises from its depth

to set the world on fire,

water overflows with clouds

thirsting for rain.

Tops of trees shimmer still

following the current light

rootless in the shallows

where the sky edges the shore.

Two lone boats doze and float

the morning, misty as it settles,

the same old man, the same dog,

another day the world allows.

~ from The Longest You've Lived Anywhere:

             Poems New & Selected 

WHAT THEY CAN AND CANNOT FAKE

artwork: ralph murre

WHAT THEY CAN AND CANNOT FAKE

 by Bruce Taylor

Any orgasm except a real one.

True love but not a sneeze

Not at least convincingly so.

Death, as children make believe

Though never nearly long enough.

And the shape of a kiss on the lips

But not the reach nor rest of touch

That lingers just below the finger tips.

Any present fashion of desire

Lust’s vogue and classic craze

But not the first loss loss requires,

Nor compassion’s passion ablaze.

Not luck or the Blues, a fugue, cold sweat,

Foul fate, true tragedy or real regret.

~ previously published in The Longest You’ve Lived Anywhere:

New and Selected Poems

FOR DANCING

photo: ralph murre

FOR DANCING

by Bruce Taylor

Trembling in sympathy

unstroked by the bow

not the string played but

the string next to it

not music but what

in music makes us

wish we were dancing

in the present arms

of not forgotten lovers

whose sweep and purl

as midnight disappears

whose glide like that

lightly out of control

breathlessly unaware of

ability and will

whose reach of flesh

under fabric whose wanton

body of a beautiful youth

ever eager in our arms.

~ first appeared in The Wisconsin Academy Review

WORK & PRAYER

WORK & PRAYER

by Bruce Taylor

Yesterday after chapel, Modestes    

who sometimes wakes me by

singing the Veni Creator Spiritus

very loudly in his sleep

took me to the barnyard

for the blessing of the animals.

As this month’s rectory second‑servant,

I had to go to say my prayers

and then put out the soup

but first the shy calves in the calf pen,

then the indifferent sheep.

The chickens we could not catch

we blessed on the wing.

The rabbits stood still

for our censer and incense

but shivered when we dropped

the holy‑water on them.

Even the devils, Modestes says,                                                                               

deserve God, so we chased

a few apostate ducks through                     

the ragged fence he’ll have me

mending the next day, or the next.

~ first published in Cumberland Review