I've chopped off all my East Coast hair scattering it like hayseed on tilled ground. Curls caught in Bay winds kindle the Arizona brush fires that paint deserts golden pink. Whirling tangles stir up tornadoes from Oklahoma to Ohio, settling into kinky Texarkana tumbleweeds. A dizzy Delilah, no Sampson in sight; I've shorn myself for summer, soft waves now ebb above my forehead, so you will have nothing to hold on to when I run.