His head split in four parts,
he walks down the street—pleasant
with shady trees and a sun softened
by leaves touching it. He walks,
a revolving turret for a head
from each slit of which he looks guardedly:
the enemy approaches or he approaches
the enemy. At any moment the chatter of differences
will break out; the four parts of his skull
revolve slowly, seeking the time.
In there they do not know of each other,
sealed off by steel walls. They are safer
together singly and apart; and shouting,
angry or in pain, have only themselves to listen;
while overhead, ignored in the walk,
are the leaves touching each other and the sun.
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