The Potential in Cutting Hair
I put the scissors to your head.
The globe below my hand turns
its fragile continents.
Hair floods
your naked shins and the iceberg tiles.
All the while you munch
on tunes, your fingers
kneeling on the sink's blemished china
lip the way mine are now
above the mother-of-pearl cutout.
A mirror scene
in which I am just
a slow arm bright with steel
whittling a hole
into your skull. Tonight
I'll slither through it
to recover this I
which could be you
composing me.
Point of Departure
Already it has us
thinking in abbreviations.
The terminal's septic with
baggage, suits
that fondle to early
death the long skin of vision
between us.
Then you're just a body
part slipping through a rift
in the wall.
As your plane rises, you revert
to figment. Chemicals
embroider the sky, sticks
of smoke bend and crack.
A world of exit signs
hold out their green.