My bunched-up sheets drying across adjoining chairs:
the peaks of the snowy Himalayas.
(I have been in Nepal and seen the Himalayas up close, from a small plane.)
For day 27 of Poems in April at 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are asked for a two-sentence poem like Pound's famous
In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.
I always think of that as the ultimate Imagist poem, which explains my title.