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He combs his hair so carefully
the young man in jeans
standing in front of the woods
as if a mirror were hanging from the trees,
as if the trees could care
about the wave and crest of his dark hair.
He combs for someone else’s eyes -
the trees will do for now -
combs carefully the shine of his dark hair
as though his life depended on it,
back to the river, face to the woods,
combing, combing…


Claudia E. Lapp


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