Brain Scan for Mr Head   The day Keith Douglas’s poems arrived I was sent for the MRI That would scan my head, But not as poets scan their feet.   I just had time to read “Bête Noire” And think Keith (in the last year of his short life) War-possessed, or traumatised In need of Long-Leave rest.   I slipped both volumes into my jacket pockets.   At once like strange six-guns they seemed, And I “The Kid” about to shoot it out With cancer of the brain, and win— Lightning on the draw in childhood games.   Here…