The Salon At The Pinnacle Of Man

Relax. You will recognise
him by his haircut.
The razor slipped
and there was a sound like the door
of a tomb sliding back.

Most great discoveries are accidents.
She blew dust from his shoulders,
the sweeper took a breath,
half-cut customers span in their seats:
We are here at the end of progress.

He stood up, angled his jaw,
had no need for the second mirror.
A rash on his neck, a comet passing.
His cape fluttered to the floor
as he popped his collar.

Clippings like sparks. He has fallen
to earth: a planet, a scalp.
She lost concentration
when straightening off.
The grade, of course, was zero.