knife-edge
were i
to shave my beard off
likewise my moustache
i would know precisely
where each whorl lay
the feeling under my fingers
of over half a century’s
intimate acquaintance
i would feel the loss
the wind in the no-longer hairs
the phantom pain
of wind in stubble
would stroke what now
was gritty skin
would incessantly
brush the moustache out
from the nostrils
pull the beard together
under the chin
in one firm caress
i put the razor back
where it belongs
until it’s time
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