It is not his hair.
His hair is short and brown and leaving him.
Like a bear.
This one is a piece of a necklace. Shining on the subway.
Where did it come from? His daughter? His son?
No. It is his lover's.
Like lipstick, a telltale: his wife will know.
Yes, tonight he will go home.
She will find the hair and cry the river she already saw welling in her cards,
because this is not the first hair.
The first hair lived inside of her brain.
It wriggled around like a worm, seeing nothing its whole life until its death.
The worm was rained out, and then laying on the sidewalk, dried up in the sun that came hot and too soon.
On the surface of a salty argument.
She knows that worm was real.
A strand of emotions pulling themselves round.
A woman always knows her own hair.
This hair is the hair of her new life.
Take off and let her red ones shine and bounce in the wind,
like they did before they were wed and wound.