Friday

The Poem as Self-Haircut

 Looking in the mirror

is confusing.

The words need

to angle backwards

away from you.

Cut too much

and you’ll need to keep

going. There’s never

a clear ending.

Some of your best

lines shear off

and clog the drain.

Syllables explode

silently in the wastebasket.

You’ll find them

in the corners of your house

for weeks.

Save them in a bag.

See if you can weave

together something

worth wearing.