(after Pablo Neruda)
and it happens that I am tired
of beauty shops. The smell of hair dye
makes me break into hives, a sort of hysteria.
Hysteria is an old-fashioned,
Freudian word. Freud is out-of-fashion,
and that is a relief. I want fashion
to be out-of-fashion. I want to lie
in uncut grass with uncut hair
in the world of Whitman. His extravagant world
of ecstatic words. I want no more text messages,
plastic surgery, lotions, wrinkle removers.
I am sick of magazine articles on organizing closets.
I have come to dislike the fashion of feng shui,
although why should I? Harmony is good.
It’s also a good idea to thank your old sweaters,
then kiss them good bye. I am afraid
of my face looking like the bark of an old tree.
At the same time, I am tired
of being deferential to a mirror.
I am tired of being outgoing.
I want to be shy, to float like a cloud
in the blue sky, grow black with rain,
fall every day, on parched earth,
give myself to trees.
Birds, come dip your feathers
in the jaunty fountains,
for I will be a thousand drops of water.
The beauty shops will dissolve,
join fossils and elephant bones.
Fleshy, spore-bearing fruit of fungus
will spread its thready network
forever underground.
Enchanted circles swill spring up.