The nose is the clown of the body.
In the center of the ring of the face
the nose runs on the spot, tickles, blows its cracked cornet,
and turns an embarrassing tint of red.
If from very high up, say, a trapeze platform,
you look down on the ringmaster’s head, his nose sticks out
like a knee,
not anything like the capable hand
of an elephant,
nor the quivering compass-needle of the lion
scenting blood bounding, bounding away.
The nose twitches in honor of its shrew-like ancestor instead;
and when the body gets too big for its breeches,
the nose snorts at its top hat,
punches the head backwards, and
Plan for this poem-in-progress