LOSING PIECES

Today my cracked hands skimmed a thinned hairline
Touching the ringed stumps of once proud black trees

Every inch, already discovered and accented by twiggy fingers
Decades have made this copper soil unfertilized but soft

It’s genetics, a mandatory tradition implanted in my sowed lands
so planting new seeds isn’t an option, or a strategy available now

Sometimes, I can still remember losing shampoo in the fields above
The warm suds bursting into my eyes and roaming around my back

Losing things without an option is the only bold male pattern here
A subtle constancy; like orange spring butterflies or falling October leaves

My daily calendar is emptying but I’m open to some bald suggestions
Offers that I won’t discard like my tiny curved hairs on the clean floor

By Amaury

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