Thursday, April 13, 2006

shorn

A poem about drastically cutting Eliot's hair for the first time. also easter. Pictures to come. . .


you are sewn and tangled to a tree branch. we avoid. missing the glyph interpreted riteously. say stuck in an atmophere. atom. adam. hanging always in your eyes. clear. coming loose is a clean tear, follicular blossom to dust. i know you will be dust. for now. bathing, you swim in outgrowth, brambles. a thicket of hair fastens easter basket. appear as if you are replaced. you regenerate. bear my molted skin. your clippings, a bartered sense of growth. weigh. the lightness, the softness passes by and snags.

1 comment:

Kells said...

lovely. thanks for posting it.