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THEHEAD-AIM Sick of your arms, You must follow an endless track Into the world that crawls, That gets up on four legs When the moon rises from a bed of grass, The night one vast and vivid Tangle of scents. You must throw your arms Like broken sticks into the alder creek And learn to aim the head. There is nothing you can pick up With fingers any more, nothing But the new head choked with long teeth, The jaws, on fire with rabies, Lifting out of the weeds. This is the whole secret of being Inhuman: to aim the head as you should, And to hold back in the body What the mouth might otherwise speak: Immortal poems—those matters of life and deathWhen the lips curl back And the eyes prepare to sink Also, in the jerking fur of the other. Fox, marten, weasel, No one can give you hands. Let the eyes see death say it all Straight into your oncoming face, the head Not fail, not tell. Falling 271 ...

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