If My Head Hurt a Hair's Foot - Dylan Thomas

If my head hurt a hair’s foot

Pack back the downed bone.

If the unpricked ball of my

Breath

Bump on a spout let the bubbles jump out.

Sooner drop with the worm of the ropes round my throat

Than bully I’ll love in the clouted scene.

All game phrases fit your ring of a cockfight:

I’ll comb the snared woods with a glove on a lamp,

Peck, sprint, dance on fountains and duck time

Before I rush in a crouch the ghost with a hammer, air,

Strike light, and bloody a loud room.

If my bunched, monkey coming is cruel

Rage me back to the making house.

My hand unravel

When you sew the deep door.

The bed is a cross place.

Bend, if my journey ache, direction like an arc or make

A limp and riderless shape to leap nine thinning

Months.'

No. Not for Christ’s dazzling bed

Or a nacreous sleep among soft particles and charms

My dear would I change my tears or your iron head.

Thrust, my daughter or son, to escape, there is none,

None, none,

Nor when all ponderous heaven’s host of waters breaks.

Now to awake husked of gestures and my joy like a cave

To the anguish and carrion, to the infant forever

Unfree,

O my lost love bounced from a good home;

The grain that hurries this way from the rim of the

Grave

Has a voice and a house, and there and here you must

Couch and cry.

Rest beyond choice in the dust-appointed grain,

At the breast stored with seas.

No return

Through the waves of the fat streets nor the skeleton’s

Thin ways.

The grave and my calm body are shut to your coming as

Stone,

And the endless beginning of prodigies suffers open.