.
A wandering character,
His life cold he thinks warm;
Livid with heat he departs for the Arctic.
When questioned about his permanent home,
He replies only with a tone of conceit: "Home is in my head."
To us his head is a balloon,
An ascension, a stratosphere;
To him we are only rooted bodies,
Suction plants, honeycomb bees.
He wanders in his head as though
His search surrounds our quiet homes,
His restless heaven harvests invisible space
Above the earth we cannot leave;
Outside the security of our walls
His wandering head is often a star
That fades in the clear morning,
Its motion lost in an endless sky.
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