“requiem for a barber”

on 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 cloud
of shampoo gathers over us; who will conduct his crowd

of bottles on the shelf, the oils and fragrances,
with small hands? who will blast the glorious organs

of 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 capes
to drape across the body; now anyone who stops

will not know where they’re going or what they’ll find
but that the hair keeps growing fuller, growing wild.

(Translated, from the German, by David Keplinger.)

This is drawn from “Wisp.”