The loggerheads left for deeper waters-
Not so this fellow by the side of the road.
He lives in his head here,  at rest in roadside salad,
A monument I can stand over.  I study the
Mustard and tar glyphs in each panel along his back.
There I see his landing, what was conferred, and
His decision to stay.  But I worry he may change his
Mind and try to cross the road. Maybe not in time.
But there is something final about his withdrawal:
The seamless hatch, the archeology of his helmet.

Later in the barbershop I ask the barber to shave my head.
I close my eyes, purse my lips and pinch my nose. The
hair fails like clumps of snow and I hear myself say,
"This is the new world."  Later still my phrenologist 
Runs his fingers across the braille of my bald head.
"There is nowhere to go," he says. "You are already there."

 In this dream I had J.L. Borges was pitching and I was up. My bat was made up of a series of convex mirrors. I knew Borges had a wicked fork ball and I was ready for it. But when he released it it just kept coming. I wailed away at it striking out over and over on the same pitch. As the innings went by I began to realize the catcher had stepped out and was trying to intentionally walk me because runners were on second and third with first base open. After the game I sat in the dugout looking at my reflection in my bat. Instead of a ball cap I had on a little cone shaped party hat. On the bench next to me was one of those little kazoo-like things you blew in and they uncurled like a snake. I heard a voice say, "shake it off, tomorrow's another game."