Perihelion: An Online Journal of Poetry and Mayhem
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joanne burns


here. hair floats down towards the floor in a morning’s sunlight. time for a moment, like a surprise cadence stroking the throat.

white hairs that have stored a life. lives. frail akashic records. their descent to the hardness of floor boards will filch their timbres. flows and whisps of thought stranded. obliterated. do not underestimate diana and the growling hunger of her vacuum cleaner hounds.

the more you brush the more they fall. is there a stubborn beauty to be observed. in this eloquent decline.