There are Days
for Lawrence Sullivan
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?
From There are Days by John Montague. Copyright © 2001 by John Montague. Reprinted with the permission of Wake Forest University Press. All rights reserved.