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
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