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