Reflections On An Auto
By A Mountain Lake
These curving fenders mirror dappled sky
as if bent only now on being pool:
the metal's gone so clear to reckon by,
it's mountain water, a machineless tool
only to tell the mackerel design
of clouds. The clouds take on, instead,
high mockery, a hard metallic shine,
the water promptly thickens into lead,
the moumains thin to air. What do I see?
Only the lovely tricks and lies of light?
And must I rather search my certainty
under the black monotony of night?
I'll stay where metal ripples down a wheel,
where joy is hammered in a sheet of steel.
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