She has the colour of my eye,
She has the body of my hand
-- Paul Eluard, trans. Samuel Beckett
She has the Kansas City of my open window
She has the halogen of my bent blinds
And her hair is in my hair
She has the fresh breeze of my borrowed flower sheets
She has the freestyle of my squeaky metal bed coils
She has the sonic boom of another’s blood beneath me
She has Any way you want it that’s the way you need it outside her window in the summer dark
And her hair is in my hair
She has the breaking point of my hard plastic pink flipflops
She has the hypnosis of my shuffle to the kitchen to make coffee
She has the conversation of my black caterpillars in their fur coats, curling uncurling by the door
last winter, hello, hello.
She has the song and dance of my rage turned against the self
And her hair is in my hair
She has the touch and go of my fear of death by emotional starvation
She has Bachman Turner Overdrive playing Takin’ care of business outside her window
& a man who says: We’re gonna mix it up we’re gonna find a sixth person we’re gonna get trashed
And her hair is in my hair
She has the Santa Ana of my sense of basic flaw and unlovabilty
She has the atavism of my narcotism
And her hair is in my hair
She has the jet lag of my pocketbook
She has the sonogram of my happiest childhood memories
She has the frailty of my recollection
She has the ultra-red ultra-violet ultra-sonic ultra-short ultra-mundane ultra-montane ululating
ultimatum of my solitude
And her hair is in my hair
She has the totter of my Plymouth Rock
She has the touch of my waffle iron
She has the undersong of my sufficiency
She has the pockmark of my housecleaning
And her hair is in my hair
She has the howl of my duplicate
The soot of my headwork
The welt of my bra
The hatchback of my stupor
The suitcase of my figments
The breath of my parolee
The proof of my throttle
And her hair is in my hair