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Sunday, March 13, 2016

In Hiding: the depths

If I say I am deep. I am not.
If I say I am shallow. I am not.
If I say I am living on the surface.
You must ask: “What surface?”

The grain of a plank of wood
is as deep as you need it to be
the closer you are to it.

Here is Ezra Pound's death mask
with such a peaceful look;
a depth of peace he did not have
during his life of pain and poetry.
It is not his face.
It is a positive of the plaster
with which they covered the skin
that was his face that was the poet.
Soon all poets will be created
in three dimensions carved
for the world to see
in 10,000 years, if poetry lasts.
Even the poetry will not fill the gaps
of what is not seen
just as wood grain
is a grand canyon in its own scale.

Barry G. Wick

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