Brain Scan for Mr Head The day Keith Douglas’s poems arrived I was sent for the MRI That would scan my head, But not as poets scan their feet. I just had time to read “Bête Noire” And think Keith (in the last year of his short life) War-possessed, or traumatised In need of Long-Leave rest. I slipped both volumes into my jacket pockets. At once like strange six-guns they seemed, And I “The Kid” about to shoot it out With cancer of the brain, and win— Lightning on the draw in childhood games. Here…
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