We go over to see the head of a woman -- even more: night and mandolin. One has to be right- handed to get into the microcosm. We slip in the back- door: both working from the other side of our brains. At Port Lympia nobody notices how skillful I am at cracking crab shells with my right hand. Don't anticipate. Up here, slightly above skyline, nothing invades our rest in the shaded cavities of this hillside. This is no picnic at Saint Philippe. The head of the woman remains an unrealized objective. In the village of Helene they ask why am I so sure about this left-handed business. I show them a map of my nervous system. They say this proves nothing. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOW TO GET ON IN SOCIETY by JOHN BETJEMAN ODE TO THE CUCKOO by MICHAEL BRUCE LETTER TO MY SISTER by ANNE SPENCER THE REFORMER by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER VENDEMIAIRE by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE LAST DAYS OF BYRON by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES |