The hair gets noticed first, the way it has
of floating even though it's already dead.
Like the life of it still sticks - tangled knots
that hobble a mythology to blandness.
The studied contempt of a neck.
It's virgin territory now. Chalk marks and blood.
Neither a tub of glue or pot of glitter in sight.
Just dead dreams, unsuturing hooves.
Unclagging to dullness on a canvas of skin.
A heraldry of ordinary. The rusting of years.