There are days when

    one should be able

    to pluck off one's head

    like a dented¹ or worn

    helmet， straight from

    the nape and collarbone

    （those crackling branches！）

    and place it firmly down

    in the bed of a flowing stream.

    Clear， clean， chill currents

    coursing and spuming through

    the sour and stale compartments²

    of the brain， dimmed eardrums，

    bleared eyesockets， filmed tongue.

    And then set it back again

    on the base of the shoulders：

    well tamped³ down， of course，

    the laved skin and mouth，

    the marble of the eyes

    rinsed⁴ and ready

    for love； for prophecy？