And the poet became landscape.
His head was a minor knoll,
On which his hair rose
Like trees in MacBeth.
Threatening myriads of readers
Who should have settled for less.
His neck expanded into a delta
Of sinews, runny flesh and slime,
Right into the labyrinthine chest
Complete with the grid of ribs
Like an ancient ship, bared of boards,
Ready for a funeral pyre.
His backbone became a thoroughfare
With slabs of vertebrae clinching
To mother earth in despair.
His hip-bones formed a lake
With a peninsula cutting it
Exactly in half.
His arms now were extreme paths
Five-pointed, white webs
Of desire and fulfilment
Of sensuality and of horror,
Leading from nowhere, into nowhere,
Connecting some memories to some other.
His legs melted into the ground
Like inverted canyons, climbing
The never-ending path into death
Binding generations to look and fear
The explanations of