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My Human Disguise.
He stands as if on the opposite rail —
On the same old circumambient bridge —
From the man with two strangers on his trail.
His forehead is a rain-carved granite ridge.
Though he seems composed, thoughtful, hands steady,
He might be going insane already.
The other’s panicked cry doesn’t make noise,
While Fritz shadows his pain in equipoise.
They say his sly sister Elizabeth
Let his mustache grow to cover his teeth
And tongue that in a mock rictus of death
Would twist and grind, never ceasing to seethe.
He called himself a nitroglycerine
Antidote for no god, if not for sin.
