The combed leaves
Makes hairstyles on the ground.
And the wind – the comb – arranges
Tiers, strata, lines, little formations
Of how coronation day
Is not just about the crown
You will inherit, also the beauty
Of the strings. Of leaves. Of hair.

Autumn is beautiful. It is when you realize
The slogan “age helps” is true.
Like a man who lost his virginity
At 38, long after others. Not just a day that the crown
Made him king, but how the hair was ready
For prune and style. How the body
Was ready to be cut by bliss
And combed by the wind in her body
Arranged in to order.
The entropy of lust sedimenting
On yesterday’s face. And the leftover autumn
Shining like she needs the wind
To comb the leaves, in a myriad of times
And styles.

The wind was finally a comb.
The hair was styled to near-perfection.
I was ready to present myself to the world.
Like a sinner without sin.
The virtue of the marriage bed.

And how beautiful is absolution
At the hands of a woman, holding a comb
In all her strategic places.

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