Poem about Everything

Finger Strings

bristle clean tidy blond strands

and here come I to ruin them with

fingetips piercing light gold traveling

down

     down

          down

till I reach the end

          and start back up at the top

we're silent

contending with our own thoughts

thinking about touches

                    and tickles

                    and time

                                                  and distance.

this is not my home.

but if it were.

     this is where I be

all the time.