If it were set anywhere else but so,
Rolling in its private exact socket
Like the sun set in a joint on a mountain,
I think I should not love it half as much.
But here, waving and blowing on my neck,
Of no particular kind of shape or geometry,
Its own original,
Flying my hair like a field of corn-silk
Tangled on the neglected side of a hill,
My head is at the top of me
Where my face turns an inner courage
Toward what’s outside of me
And meets the challenge of difference in other things
Bravely, minutely,
By being what it is.
From this place of high preferment
I, the idol of the head,
Send all the streams of sense running down
To explore the savage half-awakened land,
Tremendous continent of this tiny isle,
And civilize it as well as they can.
Head Itself
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