Monday, February 1


despite the wind
that could stir skirts ,
& herd litter
: her hair did not move

draped perfectly
around the fee-fi-faux-fur
collar( of botticelli’s venus

)not one strand,
oily or caught did budge
on to fingers
of blue january grey
that ripped & pulled
at us like pagan lovers

I slowed to observe
the fur under hair –
the hair that fell waterfall straight
& did not look up
(but fluttered its lashes )gently (
at darling the pubescent moon)

as if I would make
an admiring sound
or watch her
travel underground

as if finally
put down in silence
I recline
& sigh at her
hair perfection her hair.

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