"The Loam of His Head"
She has tilled the hair of this fallow field,
scent of pomade almost gone
from where a blue vein highways
a center ridge, toward the brow,
the curve lists at the drop --
she remembers such torque
the press of oblique to oblique
now oak to oak,
the country road rattling a long sentence
full of modifying clauses.
She would place a seed on his shiny pate,
like the seeds that grew in her
from thought into skin.
She believes in his balding
as he finds faith in her curves and folds –-
takes shade there.
Together each step trips, stumbles,
wrinkles, goes on. His forehead rolls
in waves when he speaks, a sea
whose furrows contain her.
© 2007 Hephaestes
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