Your hair rides on your head like Pontius Pilate:
conscious of the dire implications of your fate.
Your hair is like a date: a calendar announcement
of a deadline through which you would like to scratch
a red line – and a boring partner who you grieve
will never leave. Your hair is not good news.
Your hair has other views than you – as deadening
as voodoo. Your hair reminds you you will not survive.Your hair reminds you you’re alive.