Your Hair.

Your hair is a mess.  It is
a flock of birds caught
in a net.  It is mixed fruit & dirt &
strawberry patches.  It is yesterday,
and it is the way you wake up
in the morning perfectly,
in a huge mess on the floor.

Your hair is a nest for me,
with all the tornadoes
I could ever need.

It is bilingual and it masquerades
as something that knows nothing
at parties.
It is delirious and smells
like mold in the morning.  Sometimes
it looks like spiderwebs after a storm,
but it is its own storm.  Sometimes
it lights itself on fire.

Your hair is like a massacre
of dead plums, red-purple skin
rotting.  Your skin is a heroin-bomb dropped
on me, leaving me in worldthirst.

Your hair is the harvest of fall.
Your hair is all the stars falling from the sky.
Your hair is in my mouth.

It is like raspberries covered in dust,
fire in smoke,
babies in buckets of blades.

Your hair is a danger sign,
a smoke alarm,
my house on fire.

Your hair is in my mouth.

Your hair is a hangover.  It is a dozen
rainbows in hell.  It is the reason
I know how to scream.  
I am sure it is a million reasons
for someone else now.

Your hair is the wound of an animal,
licking at it like bloody berries.

Your hair is all the drugs
I need to take
to go to sleep.

It  is the used furniture I own,
with all the blood on it.

It is the picture of a birthday cake
of someone who is dead.