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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?

by John Montague
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