We fear the undulant,

the uterine wave, the forlorn sway
of ships leaving harbor

and the rippling uncut hair of graves.  
We look back at the swells and drifts

of curls. Whose curls? God’s.
Sky-wide, luxuriant as the mane

of a buffalo. Father’s, spread out
like a girl’s bouquet on his deathbed

pillow. Or the indigo whorls
of a deific junkie alone in a shadowy

room, swooning into the arms
of euphoric death, needle

still twanging in the vein
like the fletching at the base

of an arrow. I fear the flickering
of film school movies on the cave

wall. There I am, bad actress
wearing salt-white gloves,

playing a girl who fears undulant
beauty, undulant love.  end