A Lock of Her Hair

As a hoodoo-voodoo, get-you-back-to-me tool, this hank’s thankless task is vast, a head down to the ground impossibility, possibly, since what I’m thinking of is your toe pad pinknesses too, your soup hots and round-and-rounds, the fine and perfect poundage of you on my paws, the very cause and problem I moan and bemoan the absence of. For Love, above the head this reddish coil once lavishly wore, there’s an air so far away it’s sad for me to even think the same sun’s rays play where it was and do to you what I would do if I were there or you were here. Still, some thrills remembered do resemble thrills, one hopes, and the ropes of it that gently fell around me bound me so well no hell of miles can defile this dream I dream. I mean the anyway DNA I can find of you. I mean the home of bones and blood that holds the whole of you and which this fizzed-up missive means to conjure, missy, my world in a curl, girl, this man oh man half man I am when you’re gone.