Inverted, elongated,
fringed, unfringed, banged, shingled,
side-parted at the nape
of the neck, scandalous,
modern, cloched, graduated,
shaggy, buzzed,
A-line, revolutionary,
mere fashion statement, angry
flower, or wayward guitarist
sleeping on your porch.

A bent sweeper
handle distills moments
to pause for moon

spotting. Or, becomes his favorite
chin-up bar when she moves

closer, positions her mouth
mere inches from his, insists
on cleaning

beneath his bare
soles. The pun rolls under

the couch where neither
can reach it. Just too
foggy tonight.

Would he rather be
the storyteller or
a story told
with nails? A hammer or
a sickle threshing prairie
grass on a roof
overlooking a bridge
where lost

stories go to–
to do what? To leap
over faith toward a longer
narrative, or to jump
into an abrupt ending, or
to cross with others
to the other side
of a river

that never gets named. Then what?
It’s too late

to become a lyric
gesture, sound turned
down low.