There are Days

    There are days when

    one should be able

    to pluck off one's head

    like a dented 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 compartments

    of the brain， dimmed eardrums，

    bleared eyesockets， filmed tongue.

    And then set it back again

    on the base of the shoulders：

    well tamped down， of course，

    the laved skin and mouth，

    the marble of the eyes

    rinsed and ready

    for love； for prophecy？