In the front row, near
Your temples.
Some tips hover now, reaching out,
Sharply.
Some settle down, half-covering your
Eyes. Some shoot the dark,
Wrong way, no more
Than bars against the skin, making homes
On a smooth brow bone.
You run a hand through the chaotic,
Flyaway hair. Maybe you just rolled out of
Somewhere, a place
Where only her breath
Moves
The part of you
That is wheat.
C.A. MacConnell
