“Your head is a living forest full of song birds.”
“Life does not consist mainly, or even largely,
of facts and happenings.
It consists mainly of the storm of thought that
is forever flowing through one’s head.”
Inside my head a common room,
a common place, a common tune,
a common wealth, a common doom
inside my head. I close my eyes.
The horses run. Vast are the skies,
and blue my passing thoughts’ surprise
inside my head. What is this space
here found to be, what is this place
if only me? Inside my head, whose face?
Robert Creeley, Inside my head
The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1975–2005