Beside a slicked down alley/ white paint lining asphalt/again, the barber cuts my hair. /Shards drop to the floor/ loosed from the skull /we talk over dead games/ played by men walled/ in separate structures built/ from salvaged glass. It gleams upward, /reflects a twisted smile/ returns us to a glamour Autumn ./We know our future graves./A lapdog, in pools of light, fatigued,/Oblong faces solemn,/ forever mirrored back to back /by curls of fury
in forever mirrors wave their giant arms outstretched curled in fury facing one another
Poetry in Motion 