There isn't hair in my comb,
not tiny little dancing things
playing on the teeth in flourish
pop.
No, none of that, no pop no stop
No go. Oh no.
My comb is clear and plastic,
on it is the floor below,
the mirror behind, my face alone,
captured in liquid-like clarity.
I see myself and think
Masterpiece.
Falling asleep with that high,
same old
little lie. Dream well
too, absolute, fresh.
Well managed in the night.
Then the wonder of waking,
alive.
.
Comments
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"the mirror behind, my face alone,
captured in liquid-like clarity."
I really liked this part! a great poem!
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