Your Hair
Your Hair
is it long in front like a seventies teenager
tied in a bun like a crabby teacher's
done in waves gold in the sun
spread in the sand on the lap of someone
between your fingers twirled mindlessly
brushed in anger when you think of me
cut short talking to your mother
sticking straight up, a barometer of pleasure
it was the softest wool I ever pulled
perfect cover for facial manoeuvres
a hiding place for my hands to frame your face
a curtain between me and your neck
defiantly gray against your black sweater
free on the wind of someone's motorcycle
bleached on a trip to nyc
dipped in wine with the book you're reading
caught in a net in a cannery
done in a bob with nineties irony
free from chemicals matted down
or frizzed out like an indian chief
do you miss the way we played in that tent
fate seems more like an accident
you treated mine like it was your own
I don't get those feelings on my own
I've combed the world back to front
clogging sinks with frustrations
years go by hair falls out
just like love it's gone it's done
