History, like hair, grows out of the head.
The whole corpus is lousy
with histories, the long undulant stories
and the brutishly short. Each follicle
is a caesar, well-satisfied and complete.
Hair presides over history, is ridden
into history by the half-hatched nit.
Hair is her menu, and history her meat.
History, like hair, is a needle in the scalp,
in the map of the body, flying in and out.