In Each Lock Of Your Hair Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I love the way your hair curls through
The ribbons and the gold;

It seems to me the laughter of children prancing
Around a Maypole,
With the hair-suited creatures out and pullulating:

This is something sincerely pagan-
It really doesn’t exist anymore,
And I try and mouth it to the briny star,
But the traffic roars and pulls
Filled with things too fast to care,
True and modern gods to plush and placate to,

But it exists in your hair in this time,
The cheerless castles and their wan girls,
Their grotto’s water-dragon’s aquatic swirls, the spume of
Fairies in the waves
Make invisible phosphorescent too ephemeral
To be proved,

But every paraplegic scientist who keeps close-lipped
To secret renunciations of every entire hemisphere,
Deep in the night, tremulous- brought out in
The dark empiricism of somnolent senses,

Knows beyond theorem, beyond the dire motherhood of the grave,
And slinging star of death; beyond the rhythmic chaos of the waves,
The proof of things which shall never be reclaimed
All a glimmer and alive in each lock of your hair.