short hair

in the mirror i see
what the winter has done to me

dark purple bags
emphasizing a tired
unfocused glaze of
cold bruised questions.

a lock of
hair grown long
like a buried
tumbleweed
piled in the back pages
in some old trunk
somewhere.
deserted in a mine field.
ditched at the movies
its the same.

moments of
spontaneous
feeling.
a sudden change
for diamonded eye
summer
days when
the shade
echoed
the death of
a specimen.

a navy blue soul
made to believe
in words
rich with
an alluring
lack of poise.
longing for warmth.
the foreman
every couple months.
this is a time i will remember.

snip. snip.
birds coughed
the day i cut my hair off.