"Place your heads beneath the blade's edge!"

A good man — a barber — and white doves.
Tram rails, blood coagulated, spiritists.
And foamy beer pours out onto heads!
Behind the blade — a pure blue stripe of skin,
blood thickens into a blue skull sun,
the cold fingers of the wolf, like the gray
touching of fur that cuts bristles.

You're Buddah. You're a criminal. You're a clock.
Captive hair begins to revolt.
Through the holes and fissures of skin the color emerged
of future prairies, movements and judases.
Onward! To the world! — to lengthen the wind,
to grow time like hair on the winds,
like a punk mohawk, who tore away
the midnight fear from Jesus like a scalp.

These beasts with women's bodies
go out in the evening, beaming, to the water —
to the corps de ballet, posters and advertisements
and after you — lead them into the night!
This will be a murder! suicide! revenge
for the black and red, and all the same
this will be a night of sweet acquaintance,
a night of waterfalls, of falling towers,
and of night of hair woven into a rug,
into music! into rhythm! into fear! into a scream!..

You mixed her hair with white
and left the temple like a heretic.