Fixed in front of myself
Another stood behind
A cruel-looking Perseus
Two swords in hand
Sharp for a scalping
We do not talk O.K.
No news of the world
No mention of the Joneses
Just 'take what's needed
- No more than that'
Good, this is ceremony
A rite of passage
Through damaged locks -
Unsnarling of dead roots
From the temple gardens
Beneath these shears
A just thought is loosed:
How much have I grown
In the months since we last met?
How long is a piece of hair
It is not true that tooth,
Hair and nail lengthen
In death, a trick of the flesh
As the body recedes
Even in loss
There moves a weave
There moves a weave
