Every portrait’s a portrait
Of a self, although
Some are of selves other than
The portraitist’s own.
Even a flyspeck of town
Perched on lava-heaved rangeland
Above a Mormon desert,
Was a self to that poet.
The question of how gifted
A poet he really was
Had always been between him,
The ground, and the sky.
Sometimes he fell to the ground.
From there, he fell through the sky.
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