Cutting it Close
The bleat of the clipper can be heard often
in the early hours, before dawn awakes,
before I have gone to sleep. I am no sheep,
but I am shearing myself, cutting away what
I can: surgery close to the skull.
I could knit everything I’ve taken from myself
into a hairshirt, but this time I’m not doing
penance, and it’s too late for anyone else to.
At least I’m lucky–it’s an endless resource.
I can keep cutting cutting cutting it close
to the bone, bits of red and brown, but never
bleed, and when it’s done, it’s a clean sweep.