Hairpin

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
     hairpin.

Oops, sorry… I missed that I was supposed to start with “This is not a . . . . I was in a hurry because I was afraid the posting time was about to close!  For dVerse Poets Prompt: An object.