I like the idea that 100 years ago, 

he sat at his table and carved 

a nonsense beast and people 

exclaimed, “it’s an illusion” 

but he knew it was a self portrait. 

I follow the lines of his anguished face 

and hunched posture and I imagine 

smoothing my hand over his 

as he put down the tools and block 

with the imprint of his inner demon 

in relief for all to see. I know, 

I would like to tell him, how that feels. 

And he may turn to me and see 

nothing and say, this is us inside.

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