788. THE ARTIST

THE ARTIST
The one time I wrote my hand by
tracing the lines, it seemed - to me, anyway -
an amazing tracery and a lifelike image.
I felt like Michelangelo, or some anatomist,
drawing images for an overhead screen.
'I am myself amazed!' I said aloud.
Running through the halls, I scattered
the biology crowd with my elated and
strengthened glee.
-
It's never been like that again,
of course. Now, in writing with words
instead of mere lines, what comes to
the fore is an awesome but grievous
catching of each flaw. Plus, my mind
grows now as tired as my hand.
-
Peruse these pictures in my book.
Go ahead, I'll not mind. As if my
head were turned inside out, they are
all I've entered and all I've left.
Markings, such as on a cave at
Lascaux, could mean no more
to a primitive man as these now
do to an honest one. I've
never harbored my doubts.