You shaved your hair off and waited for
the regeneration of ringlets, 
the development of waves, 
the slow invisible shaft growing
in the white fallow, the unknown field, 
of your skull.

In the drawing room you sat shaven
among cleavages rank with sweat.
You wore a black feather boa, a sequined dress.
Slowly the first grayness hovered, an image
darkening under the light, under the hypo,
above the gray masses of the brain 
it sprouted.

You told them you were a scientist, an artist;
that you were sure God heard your prayers.
You told them it felt like sandpaper,
don't touch it, well, all right.
They adjusted the lamp so the light fell
and the ladies passed their hands back and forth,
back and forth,
over the stubble.