Face
like an old sack. Haggard
about the eyes. Flesh in inverted 'V's
that hang down
nearly covering
them, until something springs them awake
and pulls
the 'v' up
to reveal blue truth serum,
sharp and observant. It's
an elephant eye. Eye
of something ancient. Long
patrician nose, long face, long form,
and the kindest, softest voice with Germanic accent: soothing, piercing
all reserve that trembles when he is full of exaltation
or pain. Nothing vain about
the man. A weary,
watchful, sympathetic
giant
is Werner Herzog, who reads
souls on film like other men
read X-rays, deep into the underneath of us
so what is
hidden
is brought to light, yet he is
celebrant of the human spirit: self-deluded, nearly
crazy,
spinning
in the starry, starry night,
the wise
men, madmen, pulling their hearts
grown mammoth, too huge for breasts, and dragging
them up the mountain
toward their gods.
