a field of hair

our house is full of stray hairs 
so i collect them. i started awhile ago
by just laying the hairs out flat on 
my book shelf but now i tend to them.
now they're a field. now they wave 
in the breeze of my fan. now they're vast
with their varying shades of brown.
i like to believe if i had them DNA tested
they would find these hairs belonged
to three or four tenants before us.
long black hair. short bleach blonde.
i inspect the root. the white tip 
from which the hair's plucked.
a bit of skin or something else. 
i run a hand through my own hair 
& feel all the roots. my brother & i
would take turn pulling out each other's
hairs when we were small. i'm fascinated by
this kind of crop. the thinness of each strand.
i could make instruments but i choose to 
harvest the hair for a landscape.
i take a brush & comb the hairs.
i take a bit of shampoo & i 
wash them gently so as to not 
pull them free from their dirt.
i add my own hair on occasion,
kneeling before i remove a strand.
a knot of fishing wire. something to be
strummed. the bow of a violin is made
of horse hair & i wonder if someone
is keeping a field of horse hair too.
course & thick. i'm not going to share
my collection with anyone. i want it to be
something they find when i die.
i want them to stumble inside & get caught
in tangled of each other's hair.
there's so much of it around this house.
i get on my hands & knees & check
the baseboard. check the space between
the carpet & the door. hairs come free
& ask to multiply. all hair wants
is to be a full wide head. i don't
have a skull but i do have a block of dirt.
i wish i could give all the dirt
new skulls to spread across. maybe a field
of skulls for hair to snake across 
reptilian in its need. i feed the field
my own hair when there's no more 
to be found. i pluck it out by the root.
i offer up the sting. i sew the strand
in between others & there is a great sigh
& a great thankful ache. a scalp
quivering like the face of a drum.
maybe one day i'll show you.