one truth is never said:
that lust and longing always sit
perched atop the head.
In locks of gold or dusk or night;
in curls or waves or flowing
rivers of such sumptuous hair
that will keep you far from knowing
the contents of the pot beneath,
the pot that froths and bubbles.
The pot that cares for none of anyone
else's thoughts or troubles.
The hair's a line, a trap, a bait,
a rogue in Love's most devious game.
"Yes, I know, it happens a lot--
but, no, I don't need your name."
A siren on the skull cap,
the vinegar on the reed.
Why must the hair and not the boy
step up and take the lead?
rating: 3
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