Aunty is / in my hair
And i don’t want to cut her
She dangles perpetually upon this forehead
So i dawdle around with a eucalypt fringe
And when i scratch / Scalp falls
Like the fingers of time through our bodies
Does she burn on approach
Or dry up like the embers?
I lose her each hour until - in the end
How can it matter
What date it is?
Or which minute we lost her?