Hairclip

He rolls over,
pinning her
by her long hair.
He sleeps on it.
She draws his dreams
through its long shafts,
works out his days
into her web.
Her hair,
black raven coal
falling down the chute
between his hands.
Her hair
to be pulled down.
Her hair
his fist
coiled
in each other.
Her hair
his mouth
the cave
a feast of hair.
Her hair side-winding on the ground.
Passion.
Her hair whips
his face until he weaves
a bridge of it
to cross the high crevasse.
Her hair
drying
with a baby
swinging from it.
Her hair woven
into bags and harnesses,
yet when a strand slips from behind her ear,
it makes necessary:
fire, bronze, iron, steel, rubber, factories, the assembly line
just to invent
the
hairclip.

For Linda G Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt, “clip”