A Haircut

I am large,
I have multitudes,
but even I need
the barber's ritual touch, 
a scissoring away 
of now mostly salt, 
with a smattering of pepper
of what's always been
so much of dead hair.

Tomorrow,
when I grasp at the meanings
in spoken words, try to survive the day alone
I will know it is okay.

For the light's a scythe 
scissoring the pretensions of everyone's days
and time's a meadow of green grass diminishing 
as Munias feed on it.

I will know it is okay that I lost again
know it with the total weight of every word
felt on the lightness of this haircut head,
hear it said in an echoing epiphany 
in this beautifully desolate, steadfast 
ever growing wilderness of my soul 
where in a passionate deluge of light
unbidden the sky kisses the earth's face
thrill in the triumph of knowing 
that no wanting could touch me 
with the madness 
that teaches hate when love ends.