“We’d go not for a haircut but “a clip”: Cold smooth creeping steel and snicking scissors, The strong-armed chair, the plain mysteriousness Of your sheeted self inside that neck-tied cope— Half sleeveless surplice, half hoodless Ku Klux cape.
Harry Boyle’s one-roomed, old bog-road house Near enough to home but unfamiliar: What was it happened there?
Weeds shoulder-high up to the open door, Harry not shaved, close breathing in your ear, Loose hair in windfalls blown across the floor Under the collie’s nose.
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