Alopecia

then are we never to sit calling
as the sea brims through the grass
when your hair has all gone
and the clouds swoop so low
that we can no longer see
each other
in all of this world
when I even wanted to love
your absent hair and wonder
where it might be now perhaps
running downstream at night
all of it, every filament
to a bay which brims again
where the wind does not cease
where the tides that flow through us
make us dance and choke
where our boats and our hearts
seem so disturbed as the dawn
rushes away on winds of trouble?