In her hair.

Whole lives do not end in the middle, nor
Do they abruptly begin there.

Look at the simple one in her hair

Where waving fibers have one after another
Slipped out of the cord, away.

Burrs dig their teeth in, matted eyes prey,

Fraying the braided ends, with a messiness on
The lips that among half lives is coarse and sublime--

Is sublime.