Thursday, October 31, 2013

Your hair, and what we found in it

it was shorter, before.
now, it's long, and worn up,
in a tight bun,
or down, 
across your shoulders.

and only when you're sleeping,
yr back turned,
and only when it's impossibly quiet,
and only if you move,
and reach, 
only then,
your fingers reaching deep inside,
will you find:

a clutch of friendly snakes,
7 tiny dinosaurs speaking french,
an explosion of pastel balloons,
each balloon tied to a string 
of spun sugar. 
Seven single hairs,
More silver than gray,
Each cross-section of which
Contains 29 years of 
technicolor yesterday's,
Woven, tight, in a bird's nest,
And inside,
Six robin's eggs,
Each opening infinitely
Like so many nesting dolls. 
A pot of candied gold. 
24 dreams of spectacular tomorrows. 
Buckets and buckets
Of brimming promise. 
Old cameras,
Rusty nails & 
Broken flashbulbs. 
2 dollars, 63 cents
(in Icelandic kronor).
A real, live jackelope;
a pint jar of powdered
(sustainably harvested) narwhal tusk. 

And a million brilliant tomorrows,
Bundled neatly and ready to open,
As needed, some day when it's raining,
And the sun needs you. 

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