On sharks, clouds

Siany is milkbottle pale and has teeth like a vamp's
beneath the black tail-wave of the hairdresser's cape
The scissors whirl and worm in the storm of her wine-dark hair
snowflakes of which fall in clusters with snap after snap
after snipe after scrape

I don't know what they seek in bundled sails of her
or what they want that's not abundant in the first spidery whisp
or if they think their rooting does much more
than keep her still as a dusty china doll
as a snowflake soft and crisp

Maybe that's enough - since I can't keep her
anything like that, not with the pallid cold
of my room, or my feet, or with my thin heat
Not with anything sharp, like my paper and mouth
I am too chilled

I know hungry scissors make like sharks for hair
light and deep red as a garnetstone
or a cloud of arterial blood blossoming underwater
I know however long I have with Sian
However late she leaves, she'll soon be gone