ON THE WHITE SINK, Linda's lost hairs curl into cursive j's, c's, and 9's.
Most days they do not seem to, but today they do, try to spell her something.
Something in the wind outdoors too is seeking significance. It has to do with
the insistent standing-out quality of the flags, the pointed whip of things
which are tied at one end only, the way hats scoot ahead of the former
wearers who, bending, are chasing them. It is funny to Linda that her lost
hairs would doodle at all, much less write things of significance, especially
after leaving her head for the white sink, for other exterior spaces. Most
days she is not, but today she is, bent over, reading them.
