The Awful Ease of Tides

for Arthur Sze I. Somehow precise and unquestionable, the cut of the Chinese man’s hair. Never before this certainty, I consider the decision of each strand. The diameter. The angle. So black, the way it appears, crashing against the hard corner of his jaw. II. I consider the darkness. You are appointed court photographer. Consider this picture. III. My small face is red behind a bath towel curtain. I watch a funeral that is taking place next door. So black, my dog, hurling himself against a chain link fence. IV. The casket is lowered and I am removing rusty pins from the grease on the window’s aluminum track, along with strands of hair. V. This is pressing. I mark it with an asterisk. Black and large. VI. A vague feeling, pressing itself against a snowfence in my mind. Like a threat, I view the way you cut your hair as if it were a history of something small.