(This is a Valentine's Day poem, a little late...the tumultuous crush took place during school daze...)
THE PHILOSOPHY MAJOR'S HAIR
Young men in that class grew fierce traditional snake-braids
spearing the debate, others blackened the room
with enormous, spittle-shimmering Bolshevik
storm-beards of sedition.
While you called Nietzsche sentimental
and others roared you down,
I studied the earth-orb of your sumptuous 'fro
and wished it were made for me.
Let it be mine,
your hard and stubborn head
with its yew-dense, mustang-brown fur of knots
tempting my hand. In it
I could have clipped topiary shapes of Adam and Eve,
their fast-breeding menagerie and garden of delight.
Then I would have said to you
Screw Nietzsche. Here's a mirror. See
how we could be.
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