and then I woke up and took a leak in the fridge.

for Jamison

I woke up with the glossiest Farah Fawcett head
the wispiest and
baby hairs glowing.
I feared the weed whacker how it could belop my stylish top.


The kohlrabi in the crisper drawer, its bunchy root hairs
a far far cry I shook
my tendrils grown
brunette in deepest purple crowns, vegetable browns.


I opened the door to behold the sun beholding my hair.
I hurried the walkway
down to the jeweler
what have they this side of trend in adornments for the head.


What have they that can (I asked the spectacles that meant the man)
apply a certain
immutable play,
a gentle liminal brevity about my hair of truth?