Death’s Lepidoptera Sample
My face falls hard against the layered plush
Cloth. Underneath is trapped his curly hair
Inside a ziplock bag. My whiskers crush
Themselves against the folded towel. A flare
Of one immortal flame, this curl, or so it seems,
The tress is not eternal, though, but just
A black blaze cut from Chuck to cause long dreams.
They do not offer any fire or lust
Perhaps because they rise from dried up fire.
They curve as tendrils in my brain and send
Out spirals blackened like shrivelled desire.
There’s nothing here that glossy hair can mend.
I sleep, my beard flat, hard against soft cloth.
His hair is like a pinned collector’s moth.
