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.