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