His middle name was something Italian, and those dark tresses draped him like a morose cloud. He was introduced to her as “my hairy castoff brother.” They had caught him smoking out front of the local pizza joint, and she’s not sure what all was in the cigar. Those hooded eyes, they were shot through with veins, like faults in the earth or lightning.
I am a wild-haired hipster–one of seven–wild and herded onto the road with the angel-headed brethren: they are harried by world to cover, covered by wiry hair. It falls above, below their eyes, like dark tears dripping to their chins. Continue reading