if beauty comes it comes startled, hiding scars, out of what barely can be endured

I once saw a painter smear black paint 

on a bad blue sky, 

then rub it in until that lie of hers 

 

was gone. I've seen men polish cars 

so hard they've given off light. 

As a child I kept a stone in my pocket, 

 

thumb and forefinger in collusion 

with water and wind, 

caressing it day and night. 

 

I've begun a few things with an eraser, 

waited for friction's spark. 

I've learned that sometimes severe 

 

can lead to truer, even true. 

But few things human can stand 

to be rubbed for long—I know this 

 

and can't stop. If beauty comes 

it comes startled, hiding scars, 

out of what barely can be endured. 

 

[Stephen Dunn {1939-2021} 'Rubbing', from Different Hours]