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The following piece appeared in our first (Summer 2002) issue.
I won't lose auburn, a stubborn
leaf in November wind. Though
gray threatens and too many
summers wear their shine out
beneath green eyes, winter
affords me my own cold, clings
to old memories like frost.
This morning was no colder
than the twenty before, but fog
rolled in, an unexpected conductor,
blew inaudible whistles, misty
sounding nothings in early light.
My daughter chooses the bottle:
a different shade of brown
with enough black to lose the light
streaks that cross the crown,
kiss her temples. I hold her
fine hair beneath the stream,
feel warm water run far and away
from my fingers, wonder why
I haven't put my head under
completely, found myself in dyeing.
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