Bleach blonde, you first arrived red crackling in fireplace, hot
little Scorpios pft! pft! behind chain mail. Wearing that scratchy
duck sweater, put there to pose on the mantle, I come to learn
that you’ll run now at any time, ten white flashes. The
unclogging purr of a Q-Tip. A jar of antiseptic where the
barber keeps his combs was a blue Head never understood,
either: swiveled between two mirrors, shown the fade of its
backside, asked to nod along.