A Strand

Copper crown
half floating upon eyes,

longing,

descending

from steel steps,

drifting to emerge

as a strand in the mess of hair

of this distant population

rushing on concrete,

have me hoping

to pluck you

from such wild tresses

& keep you

a sample of yearning

or maybe

wish for the winds

to blow you to me

& together we shall

descend and drift away

and wake up in mornings
where we've no need for combs.