Barber of the Pea

“Good Barber of the Pea!” I exhumed,

high into the vag

where the barber keeps his

pea —

“Good Sprout!” His mouth, his gray,

hunted tongue,

always in the distance —

“No use denying

we master the particular service

we deny ourselves. In the shade of this pea

(the sum of his shade and the gavel

flexing above his head)

I will become

a milliner to cover what work I’ve

done. Or else, I’ll begin anew

at the infant chin,

where nothing grows but chins!

Outside, snails, vines, surpass me

and must — gaining pews upon

pews. But don’t think for a sec

I don’t know the way out of here, that release is

one hair — spiral stair — top of which

cleavage evaporates”