I tuck and put your hands into my clean fresh cut

a short bob falling just above the bottom of my ears

roughly pushed back at the sides with two

parallel cropped braids emerging from

just below the slightly diagonal edge of the bob

in the back—

there are two bulbous globs of dyed-

auburn hair rolling into a bouncy nest on each

of my shoulders lying over loose wide rolls

and some

salt and pepper curls cresting to my front and

catching in each armpit, sussing out a simple

lay within the wavy layers of blonde hair piled up

on the tops of my arms and hanging

onto my elbows—

on the right side of my face a slick finely combed-

through fan is tightly pulled back from just beneath

my temple to a point above and behind my ear

next to a puff of tight silver and brown curls

sticking out from the side of my head, long

straight dirty blonde strands float out

over and from within the bob undulating

in a constant draft above my shoulder, a large

softly swept back hump of downy frizz sits

on the left top of my head next to scruffy bleached

tufts of hair standing up off-center, snaking

and curving by their own weight

back onto themselves—

jagged bangs parted in the middle sit below my

eyebrows between a curved polygon ending in a

gently upturned wisp laying over my right eye

and cheek and a face length ribbon

high above my left cheekbone angled against

and through the hair on the left side of my head—

on the right side my face

over a large bunch of fine black hair brushing

my cheek and burying my ear a soft sheet

of brunette hair falls from my temple to the side

of my mouth bending out towards

the space to my side in a parabola and flaring

under my chin and a few strands entangle

on my wet lip—

a gentle part in the left side of the back of my head

splits into a series of elongating s-shapes

autonomously braiding at the tail ends as they

bounce and sashay and a single shining wave

curling into itself as it meets the outer back ridge

of my left ear—

a loose braid curves horizontally

around the top of my head

its end disappearing

into piled ringlets on the sides of a vertical bundle

of hair at my crown next to an elegant pyramid

of four rough knots

drooping onto each other—

three leopard spots are dyed into an irregularly

shaped and closely shaven patch around a frail

white cowlick at the edge of my hair whorl

a wet dark chocolate hill with red highlighting

begins from the edge of my forehead and rolls

sleekly to the center of my right eyebrow blending

at one edge into a springy short blonde coil

on the left side of a natural part

split by a gently fixed turtleshell barrette

and two bobby pins—


[ . . . ] holding hands.

[ . . . ]. 
I put on a soft cotton blouse.
I put on a soft cotton blouse, light blue 
and lift the collar gently
and touch the round plastic buttons. Perhaps
no issue is more vexed
than the small linen jacket
that slides over my arms—yesterday

I cut my hair 
into a bob—

the ends fall to the bottom
of my ears. I tuck my hair

behind my ears, one at a time, and smile.


Working the depthless predicate unringed, the sun

and the earthen mirror—in a fit of coldness

 I clutch my left hip—and pelvis

ridge with a thumb

around front, lying a made loose fist, in-

turned on my sternum: then twist

left eyeing the parallel ribbon above my shoulder—

             a night cold apple is resting against my

cheek—

white and blue—

 I collapse

my left hand over the side of my chin, take onto

the knuckles of my right hand my left elbow

and gently support my bemused head—I have

             a beading wet orange jammed firmly

between my forearm and bicep—

iridescent oils, moving pink

dirt, orange pores, all blue—

 after I splay down and backwards the entire body

of my left arm, and cup

the side of my neck

with my right hand I lean my chest forward

against my pelvis thrust back, I keep my head

straight—and I am wearing

thick speckled dove lensless glasses—and I possess

             a warming royal gala

upright on my elbow, my right

one—

visually impassable—

 I punch without force each section alone

of my right arm down and my right hand deep

into the pocket of my straight pant

and turn, slightly,

leaning into it and put my spreading left hand

flat along the left of my face, over my ear—I am

happily surprised—a clean

             but steadily blackening banana

is hooked around my right wrist—

against my thigh—

like a purple crystal under foam—

I turn both my hands inward and let them

onto my stomach, with my wrists pushed out

and my elbows angled forward and I have

an s-shape—I am looking

with warmth and a faint gleefulness

of love—and with my head at a tilt

             a bartlett pear is reclining

into the nook of my right collar bone—

so richly indistinguishable

from the surroundings it is

a hole—nothing

forever—I relax

my hand onto my side and look up and over

and am curling way back, impossibly throughout

but pushing my head and neck forward such that

             a mauve plum

on a spilling bundle of white grapes

is just not rolling off of the center of my stomach—

mauve

though I cannot

see this, full dull and arcing

             invisible, netted

             ringing

             one of the axes:

what consists of the cold gel

fixed on many surfaces?—the action of the watery

mechanism aerosolizes

with all of that clothing and spews it

six hands from the center of a shallow curve,

relaying, for instance,

tumbling sentient cardigans whose fasteners

are gold buttons

and into whose surfaces are etched anchors

wound by rope aerosolizing with weak dye

released into the air—