THE MYTHOS OF SAMUEL HUNTSMAN

If I should round the corner quickly—

­Or suddenly turn my head— ­

I know I'd catch them preparing the scene,

Painting a tree or hanging the moon,

Arranging houses and streets exactly

In the desperate game which is God's.

For I have seen through their plausible lies—

That of a uniform world,

And cities existing beyond these hills,

Or on rain-wet pampas ferocious bulls,

A logic of morrows and yesterdays

Or real seeds under this field.

The surface is thin as a gilding of oil

Upon an enormous lake

Deep as infinity, void as a gas,

On which they plant the lying rose