With its settle bed was our first barber shop.
We'd go not for a haircut but 'a clip':
Cold smooth creeping steel and snicking scissors,
The strong-armed chair, the plain mysteriousness
Of your sheeted self inside that neck-tied cope –
Half sleeveless surplice, half hoodless Ku Klux cape.
Harry Boyle's one-roomed, old bog-road house
Near enough to home but unfamiliar:
What was it happened there?
Weeds shoulder-high up to the open door,
Harry not shaved, close breathing in your ear,
Loose hair in windfalls blown across the floor
Under the collie's nose. The collie's stare.
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