Poemsrequiem for a barberSave this storySave this storySave this storySave this storyon monday all must rest, so monday it will stay:shade the mirrors, slip the edges of the shears away.who will knead his fingers now, circling, until the cloudof shampoo gathers over us; who will conduct his crowdof bottles on the shelf, the oils and fragrances,with small hands? who will blast the glorious organsof blow dryers and let them roar, let them swell?of all the tints, take the black; darken up the colorful.now, magnificently, slowly as a tent, there are no capesto drape across the body; now anyone who stopswill not know where they’re going or what they’ll findbut that the hair keeps growing fuller, growing wild.(Translated, from the German, by David Keplinger.)This is drawn from “Wisp.”