First, we brought it all to, and then we found, this head –
a bank filled with lost millennial wealth.
It’s a gift for having ministered to the dead,
though the bosses say it’s come about of itself.
Who’s it from? No one’s been able to tell.
Of the surface, we’ve said that it’s contoured but dull.
If we find an entrance, we’re to give out a yell.
No one’s sure if it’s a face or a skull.
We’ve declared ourselves for the former, as that seems
likely the happier conclusion to embrace,
though we’re all but lost as to what it means.
Nor can we boast we’ve discovered a finer place,
unable to clinch that unexampled renown
we had all hoped we’d find. Instead, we’ve found
ourselves caught up in the myth of a final face.
[Previous: History As a Spore]
[Next: The Big Squint]