My grandpa once told me an old tale.
He'd talked of sights that couldn't be unseen
-----(and I had thought of beautiful new scenes)
and of people behind the partial veil,
like men who were cadmium yellow pale.
In my child's mind, the peaceful image did prevail—

long into adolescent life—

I learned the climb he took unscreened,
how fear gripped him but he climbed up the rotting treen:
----- high to higher, so that the world dropped

-----Or maybe that was innocence that
fell away at the pop-pop-popping of
the yellow man; the new fire that scarred
tissue, flesh and me.

Tale end: him and the yellow man, both fought, both spared.
Tale beginning: my pure heart kept under careful care.