grove/growing/hair flowers

one vein of the hairdresser
no more tattoo,

  the dreary spell of being warm-to-
  telly, this arc of scissors and
  the point of criss-crossing
mirrors ?

i [no!] ink my hair,    that's no more
i was crinkled beneath visions
of hammers and turning screw

some birds know
that the abbey

is the lords birth being born
and the nights

they sleep in wont shelter or pickle
them in jars that children will peek to.

i will breathe my own air,
that is the cruel part of falling
(love)

and that the bark of my chain
is the only loud part
of my drag,

crawl through dresses that smell
of you, or you

sweetheart.
i want to bury my bone and my hair
in your sick, your poor,
your burdens

and grow a new us in a grove
where the sun is happy and the clouds
lake in the mirror of blue
and easy pleasures.