My Human Disguise.
He’d seen these mountains in many places,
In dreams through the eyes of countless faces,
In gilded frames stacked in storefront windows —
Oils, inks, pastels, pencils, grainy photos —
Each some dauber’s idea of a mountain,
Gravel dredged from a glorious fountain.
He’d climbed many times to the timberline
Before he’d drawn his first sketches — no sign
Of life must mar the purity of quartz,
Schist, granite, feldspar, molded by ages
Of the elements’ incessant rages.
Intentionally, his paintbrush distorts
What is seen, reducing it to hatches,
Creating mountains from tiny scratches.
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