Black hairs flow the length to which hairs would go
over her shoulders, In morning newspaper:
US SOFTENS STANCE TOWARD N. KOREA. Clouds slide
through the tall crosshatched neck of an iron crane.

Downtown, we pass a bronze statue, its back to us, one pointy breast pouting between a certain phenomenal and carnal form of spirit. It becomes, rather, one that remains difficult to name: neither soul nor body, and both one and the other. For it is flesh and phenomenality that give to the spirit its spectral apparition, but which disappear right away in the apparition, in the very coming of the revenant or the return of a smooth dark arm held akimbo.

Streets damp with anticipation, straight, curly, short hair, swirling long hair, everywhere, as the bus shutters my vision apart.

Like splitting until the killers have been changed
to roots, to birds
until the killers have become
the guardians and have learned
our language
waiting to be delivered,
waiting to be made whole hairs.